


Scribbles and Scratches

by stardustandswimmingpools



Series: Phandom Big Bang [1]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 20k+ words so sorry but i have also been told that long fics are good so, Alternate Universe - High School, Art, Blue pen, Cutting, Dan Howell and Phil Lester Are Teenagers, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Phandom Big Bang, Platonic Relationships, Secrets, Self-Harm, THAT'S a tag woah nice, actually u wanna know what??? i have an awesome idea for next year's PBB already yikes, alternate title: The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword, cheesy nerds, enjoy i guess???, for most of it anyway, i don't know why that's not a tag on ao3, sophomores because I'm a sophomore judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8492896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustandswimmingpools/pseuds/stardustandswimmingpools
Summary: They both draw on their skin: one in blue, the other in red. One is a budding artist and a lofty dreamer; the other, a depressed boy with a broken heart. One’s weapon is a pen, and one a blade. But as the old adage promises, the pen is mightier than the sword.[Read it on Tumblr, if you prefer.][Here is the amazing art that was done for this fic!]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, _wow_ , this is so exciting.  
> This is gonna get long (maybe this is a brand thing now? I just write unnecessarily long stuff?) First off, god, I did _not_ think I’d make it through this. I’ve never written a _good_ long fanfiction - or any story at all - before now. Thanks to @phandombigbang on Tumblr for giving me this great opportunity to prove that APPARENTLY I CAN!
> 
> Triple thanks to @d-slicelester, my beta (also from Tumblr), what would i do without you, you caught my mistakes and validated the stuff I was proud of and made me laugh and smile every time you commented on my way long document. Another triple thanks to @iliketothinkofmyselfasaliar (my Tumblr-assigned artist) for creating art for my fic that outdid any and all of my standards, you really went above and beyond, PLUS you’ve read my favorite book. What a great team I was given. <3  
> This fic is my child - I started it on a whim and I am known for always writing more than I need to because I never know when to stop, so by the time I found out about the PBB, the fic was already 8k words. The only reason I even signed up was because I wasn’t worried I wouldn’t meet the limit because 2k words is the easiest thing ever. Related, thanks to @lesteresce and @goddesshowell (two of my great friends on, yup, Tumblr) for convincing me to join the PBB and reassuring me that it really isn’t that hard (and it really wasn’t but honestly that was only because of the 8k I already had).
> 
> And I would like to thank Dan and Phil for being nerds who created this epic world; and I would like to thank my dog for being cuddly as hell; and I would like to thank Lin-Manuel Miranda, who inspires me every day by being so stupid smart and rich and successful and awesome; and I also would like to thank the entire rest of the world but sadly I don’t have enough time or space for that so I leave you here.
> 
> IN SUMMATION, I am very super mega über proud of this fic and where it went and how it turned out (also, the warnings make it sound really depressing but I promise it’s not _thaaaat_ depressing) so please read it if you want (I know it’s hella long but I’ve heard people like hella long fics????) And thank you so much to everyone who helped me get through this. _Dale!_

_They both draw on their skin: one in blue, the other in red._

* * *

 

There’s a boy in Phil’s classes that he’s never paid attention to before. He supposes it’s because school began in September, when a cold wind was already sweeping over London, and everyone was wearing long sleeves — he supposes this is a good thing, because that way no one wondered when he, too, wore long sleeves. The boy has floppy brown hair and a fringe that cuts sideways down his forehead and the side of his face. And he always has a blue pen in his hand.

Long sleeves cover up arms, so it isn’t surprising that Phil has never given a second thought to this boy who he’s come to know as Dan Howell, another kid in his year ten class at this unassuming high school in London. He’s never even given a _first_ thought to the majority of his classmates, mostly because he genuinely doesn’t care. About very much anything, actually, except sort of getting through another day so he can go home and collapse on his mattress and think about people he can’t bring back and things he can’t fix.

But now spring is blooming, and people are slowly starting to pull off their sweatshirts as the sun reaches them. Dan is quick to switch from long sleeves to short sleeves, and it’s not like Phil even notices it until the teachers calls him out in maths.

“Dan,” the professor says, frowning. Phil looks up out of instinct, just like the rest of the class. Their eyes are all following the teacher as he walks towards Dan’s desk.

“Hm?” Dan finishes scribbling something onto his paper, then drops his pencil and looks up. “Yeah?”

“What is on your arm?” he asks confusedly. Everyone’s gaze falls on Dan’s right arm, and there’s a very, very faint collective intake of breath heard from the room as their eyes absorb all the blue ink swallowing up his skin. Doodles, scribbles and swirling lines trace all the way up his forearm and down the back of his hand, curling around his fingers and biceps. Phil is distracted for a moment.

His own arm prickles shamefully. He rubs it distractedly. Dan shifts.

“Just some words and stuff,” he says nonchalantly. “It’s just pen, it’ll wash off.”

The teacher’s eyebrows crease, but it seems he can’t find a problem with it. “Okay, then.” He returns to his desk, and everyone’s eyes return to their papers.

Phil looks back at his page. He hasn’t the slightest idea what they’re learning about. He tugs his sleeve up a little bit, and a red scar peeks out from his wrist. The scar isn't a new one, but fresh ones line the hidden part his arm, tainting his own skin in shades of red, scratches that spell out _anger_.

He pulls his sleeve back down, curling his fingers around it. Then he rests his head on his desk. He hasn’t done a single problem, and he doesn’t care.

His head is facing Dan, so he watches without really seeing. Dan is tapping his pencil mindlessly against his chin. Then he drops it to his desk. He unzips his pencil case and pulls out a blue pen. He brings the tip of the pen to his arm and scribbles something hasty. Then he caps the pen again and returns it to the pencil case.

Phil watches in a tired daze as Dan settles back into his uncomfortable desk and starts humming under his breath. He’s pretty sure he knows the song, and after a moment realizes that it’s A Little Mermaid’s _Part of Your World_. Disney tunes. Because of course he sings Disney tunes.

Phil turns his head the other way and blinks the blue ink out of his mind.

* * *

 

It’s a routine now for Phil: he gets home (there’s no one home — there never is), he goes upstairs to his room and drops his backpack on the floor, and most days, he will do one of two things. The first is to flop onto his bed and wish he could die. The second is worse, so much worse. He tugs off his shirt and heads to his bathroom.

His best friend Benny had passed away in a car accident only four months ago, and every day Phil is angry about it again. It’s cruel. It’s stupid. It’s arbitrary and it isn’t fair that Benny had to _die_ and here’s Phil, living his life. And he refuses to let himself forget Benny, not ever. He’s not allowed to write it on his walls and he’s not allowed to destroy his room but he wants so badly to deface something that he defaces his own arms.

He can write in his own blood, make words out of the lines he draws. And it's always a recurring name. _Benny_. Today, as he sits in his bathtub, razor in hand, he can’t think of what else to write.

He decides to draw.

It might sicken someone to hear a person contemplating how best to disfigure their skin on a given day, but Phil likes to think it makes him sort of an artist. Artists suffer, right? Isn't there an expression like that? He makes art. If it happens to be on his own skin, with his own blood, then so be it. He likes feeling like he is a work of art. As if in another universe, people will stare at him in awe, instead of disregarding his entire presence.

The red stains his bathtub, dripping down his forearm, streaking lines that will dry up and he will wash off, ignoring the sting of the open wounds.

He goes into a sort of trance as he draws, letting go of the collected pain and frustration of the past day, the anger of missing Benny, concentrated in his right hand as it moves mechanically across his arm. His mind wanders, and unconsciously, his hand stops moving and he sits, pensive, in the bathtub, contemplating what he’s made on his skin.

It’s nothing distinguishable, but it’s an emotion. He knows what he drew; some abstract representation of a feeling he had today. He knows he drew it perfectly, yet he can't really figure out what that feeling was; and so he stares at his bloodstained arm until suddenly a boy with an arm as blue as his is red flashes in his mind.

Intrigue. A softer feeling than anger, frustration. It makes lines on his arms, crisscrossing up his wrist and his forearm. Scratches, more than cuts.

Now it’s tired confusion. The boy had intrigued him? Dan Howell had intrigued him?

Why? All Dan has are drawings on his arms.

Then again, all Phil has are drawings on his arms. But he can’t let anyone see them.

He turns on the bathtub water and runs his burning arm under it, then leaves it running so the blood will drain out of the tub. He goes back into his room, patting his arm dry delicately with a hand towel, which he then throws in his laundry basket. His parents are home now, half an hour after he gets home, as always. He pulls on a t-shirt and sweater, and goes downstairs to greet them.

When his head hits the pillow that night, he dreams of scratches.

* * *

 

The following week, Phil can’t help himself. He’s been staring at the doodles on Dan’s arm all week, and he’s dying to know what compels him to write on himself. He’s _never_ the one to talk first to another person, and Phil doubts that Dan knows he exists, but curiosity ruined the metaphoric cat’s life, so Phil decides to go for it.

It’s the start of school, before the bell rings, and Phil has English 10 with him. Dan’s sitting alone, sketching, not on his hand, for once, but on a piece of scrap paper. Phil bravely stands up, tightening his fingers around the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

He walks over to the boy, who lifts his head as he approaches and puts down his pen. Phil glances at the paper: it’s a pair of eyes. Pretty eyes, and he’s drawn them nicely. Dan smiles kindly. “Hi, Phil,” he says.

Phil is thrown off. “Hi,” he mumbles. He’s not sure how Dan knows his name — he seems like a very daydream-type person, not the kind to pay attention to anyone’s name, much less Phil’s. Phil likes to think he’s the most remote student in the entire school, and even his teachers have mixed up his name a couple times.

“You need something?” Dan isn’t annoyed; he genuinely wants to know if there’s something Phil needs that he can help with.

Phil shakes his head, surprised by how gently Dan speaks. “No, I — was just — wondering about the — the stuff on your arm.”

Dan glances down at his arm, drenched in blue ink, and says, “What about it?”

He looks back up at Phil, with a sort of earnest look, like he’s not looking at Phil, but rather inside him. Which Phil isn’t okay with, but Dan really does have nice eyes.

“Kind of...why you do it,” he mutters.

Dan breathes a laugh. “Oh. Just as an alternative.”

Phil thinks he’ll elaborate, but he doesn’t. “To what?”

Dan smiles wryly, shakes his head, and says nothing.

Phil takes this as a sign to leave, but if anything, this exchange leaves him with more questions than it answered. “Well, thanks,” he mumbles, and turns back to his own seat. The bell rings. Class starts.

* * *

 

When Phil gets home that day, something is nagging him. He heads upstairs and drops his backpack, and then he falls onto his bed to think. Something in his mind won’t rest, and he needs to figure out what it is.

His forearm is itching, as if it is waiting to be attacked by a razor like it is every day. But now that he’s down, Phil is too tired to get back up. His eyes roam around his room, fall on the lamp on his bedside table, the clothes on his floor, the papers on his desk, the light on the ceiling, the pencils and pens thrown askew on his dresser. There he stops and suddenly he’s struck with a thought; that boy, that stupid boy who’s been occupying his thoughts with his blue arms and blue pens and _blue blue blue_.

Phil pushes himself up and out of bed, and hesitantly crosses the room. He picks up a blue pen. It’s almost void of ink, but it will work.

He uncaps it and pushes his sleeve up. Then, tentatively, he puts the tip of the pen to his skin and drags it down to his wrist.

It leaves a line. A bright blue line, dramatically contrasting the pale lack of color in his skin and the angry red scratches decorating his arm.

He does it again, this line crossing the first one.

This doesn’t make him feel any better. His arm doesn’t hurt, just stings, a ghost pain from yesterday and the day before and the day before and the day before. So he grabs a red pen and does it again.

Blue and red clash on his skin as he outlines the old scratches with the same color. This red is more vibrant and less violent, but it looks like blood. Carefully, he puts it back to his skin and writes five letters. _B. E. N. N. Y._ He puts the cap back on the pen and examines his arm carefully.

An alternative. Phil actually understands.

And he’s struck with an overwhelming desire to get to know Dan.

* * *

 

Phil’s nerves are rattling the next day. He yanks down on his sweater sleeve, then approaches Dan, who is drawing once again.

“Hi,” he says under his breath. Dan must have remarkable hearing, because he looks up and flashes that wide smile to Phil, his eyes crinkling. Phil refuses to let himself consider it, but his heart skips for just a moment as he takes in the brightness of the expression on his face. Maybe in another situation, he’d call him cute.

“Hey, Phil,” he says cheerfully. “How are you?”

“What are you drawing?” Phil blurts out. He bites his lip. “I mean — I’m alright. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Dan says. His voice is still gentle. Phil can’t even remember hearing Dan talk, ever. How this boy had managed to escape his attention in one of the smallest, saddest schools in the country is beyond him. Dan slides his paper to the edge of his desk so Phil can have a look.

Phil examines it. It’s entirely blue pen, but the shading is so good it’s hard to tell. He’s drawing hands; people’s hands. It looks like they’re just dangling beside each other, and their fingers are touching.

“Jesus christ,” Phil whispers. He slides the paper back reluctantly. “That — that’s really amazing.”

“Thanks,” Dan says gratefully. “I’m glad you think so.”

“Who is it? I mean, in your drawing, sorry — I mean were you thinking about anyone specifically?” _Stop talking_ , he chides himself.

“Nope,” Dan replies. “But I like that you can’t tell if it’s a girl and a boy, or a girl and a girl, or a boy and a boy, or two other genders altogether. It’s just two people.”

Phil can’t resist a small smile at that idea. “Or it’s one lonely person,” he adds.

Dan looks at it, then back up at Phil. He’s doing the thing with his eyes again, where his stare bores straight through Phil. Phil drops his gaze.

“Maybe it is one lonely person,” Dan repeats.

“Or not,” Phil says quickly. _Why did you have to make it depressing?_

“Well, I guess it’s up to the viewer for interpretation, isn’t it?” Dan slides it back over to Phil. “You want it?”

Phil is taken aback by the offer. “Uh — I'm — it's yours,” he stutters.

“Not if you want it,” Dan says. He watches Phil expectantly.

Phil finds his fingers closing around the sketch. “S-sure,” he mumbles. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Dan says, smiling. “See you.”

That sounds like an open invitation. _I'll see you_.

Phil stares at the drawing for the whole class and doesn't hear a single thing the teacher says.

* * *

 

Like a magnet, he’s drawn to Dan the following morning. Dan sees him standing over him and smiles up at him. “Morning, Phil,” he says.

Phil doesn't speak. Instead, he studies Dan’s arm, elbows on the desk. Dan doesn't move.

_Study guide_

_LETTERS_

_3015389999_

_lunch?_

_Sketch hair, arms_

Scribbled notes are all over his skin, almost illegible, punctuated by little doodles and drawings of things like flowers and hands and hearts and squiggles and X’s. Four lines are drawn across his arm, and underneath them, invisible, are four scars, almost gone but not entirely.

“What’s it for?” He asks, shaking his head to clear it out as he straightens up.

Dan’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Which bit?”

“All of it?” He can't help it; he's so intrigued by Dan, and he knows nothing about him.

Dan chuckles. “That’s homework I didn't do, that’s a reminder to write to my friend PJ, that's his friend’s phone number, that’s a reminder to ask my mum for lunch money, which I completely forgot to do, and those are ideas,” he says, pointing to each thing in their respective order.

Phil chuckles. “Do you want to borrow some? I have a few pounds.”

“I’m…” Dan looks like he’s about to say no, and then he closes his mouth, blinks, and says, “Actually, yes. I would appreciate that.”

Phil isn’t sure why he just offered his lunch money to a boy he just met, but Dan is very kind, and Phil has a sneaking suspicion he’d have done the same. Besides, Phil could think of it as payment for the beautiful drawing, which he’d pinned up on his wall, right above his bed.

“Do you write letters regularly?” He asks.

“Never really did, but PJ just moved away to Norwich a couple months ago, before school started, and we’ve been writing back and forth. He’s really artsy and creative, and he always prefers handwritten letters. Says they’re more personal, which they are, I suppose,” Dan says thoughtfully. “I try to write to him regularly, but he’s so much better at writing to me. I think he’s more passionate about the idea of writing things on paper, long things with a solid point. Which is strange, because he’s one of the most head-in-the-clouds people I know, but I guess people can surprise you sometimes.”

“Guess so,” Phil says. He wants Dan to continue talking, but it looks like he’s done. He looks up at Phil.

“How are you doing?” he asks, and the questions surprises Phil.

“Fine,” he says instinctively, and is startled to find that, for once, he’s telling the truth. His mind and his mouth are in synchronization, and he doesn’t feel like he’s drowning or like there’s a permanent dark space surrounding him. There’s color in the world and he feels extremely light, and suddenly he realizes that even if it doesn’t last, this is what it feels like to be okay.

“That’s good,” Dan says, smiling earnestly. And that seems to be it.

The bell rings, and Phil slides into his seat and turns off his brain. His mind wanders, as it always does in class, but it’s all blue and ink this time. He shakes his head slightly. It feels strange to talk to someone so easily that isn’t Benny. Somehow, it’s not a bad thing.

Time and again he’s told himself that he shouldn’t dare disrespect Benny’s memory by befriending someone, but the more he thinks about it now, the dumber it sounds. Benny would want Phil to have friends. And — Phil bites his lip and clenches his fist — Benny wouldn’t want Phil to ruin his skin like that. Phil has been so caught up in his fury that he forgot to think about Benny. _I write his name every day on myself and I couldn’t even spare him a thought,_ he thinks. He feels disgusted with himself.

It’s been so long since Phil has had a friend; or at least it feels that way. In truth it’s only been a few months, but Phil was so used having someone always around, a constant he could trust in, that Benny’s death had left Phil isolated on this island where the only options were bleed or _drown_.

And now, an anchor in the form of Dan Howell, artist extraordinaire. Phil feels like Dan could probably scribble a bridge and it would hold both their weights — but he can feel he’s getting ahead of himself. He isn’t stupid enough to think Dan considers them friends, at least not yet, probably not ever. After all, why would he?

Still, Phil can’t help himself. He wants to be friends with Dan so badly.

 _I’ve given up on everything_ , he tells himself. _But I’m not giving up on this._

* * *

 

Every day for the next two weeks finds Phil standing over Dan’s desk, and the two boys engaged in a conversation that, to any outsider, would seem deep and important.

In reality, it ranges from this:

_“Okay, but really, what is alternate-universe-you like?”_

_“He probably has pink hair and sings concerts.”_

To this:

_“I always thought the color yellow was kind of gross, but then sometimes I see it in like one specific way, and it just seems so beautiful, you know?”_

_“I always thought yellow was kind of gross, full stop.”_

_“Yeah, because you never wear any color. You should try light blue, maybe. Or any blue. It’d match your eyes.”_

On Friday, Dan says something that makes Phil stutter, which, after a brief moment of thought, he realizes he hasn’t done in days. Talking to Dan, words flow out of his mouth like music, or a story that’s already been written. Dan can always talk in paragraphs, and Phil’s fine with that, because it means he has to talk less. Anyway, he likes hearing Dan talk about things. He’s always so thoughtful and articulate.

Although Phil is sure Dan’s lost his mind when, after Phil greets him in the morning, he says “So I was wondering — are you free on Saturday?”

Phil gapes at Dan, but the boy is doodling mindlessly on his arm and isn’t looking at Phil. It takes a few seconds for Phil to recover himself and clear his throat. “Y-yeah,” he says, stumbling over his words.

“You want to come to my house?”

When Phil doesn’t answer after almost a minute, he looks up.

“Are you okay?” He asks, concern shadowing his bright eyes.

“F-fine,” Phil stammers. “Just — fine. I — I’ll ask.”

“Sounds good. Here, let me give you my number, you can call me if your parents say yes.” Dan reaches for Phil’s left arm, and Phil draws back, holding out his right arm instead as he pulls the sleeve up. If Dan notices, he doesn’t say anything about it, just “Holy mother of god you are pale. Do you go outside?”

“Not — not much,” Phil admits, a small shudder traveling down his spine as he considers how close Dan had gotten to finding out all the messed up parts of him.

“Well, that’s not really a fair accusation on my part, because I never go outside either,” Dan adds pensively. He picks up his pen and scribbles a phone number onto Phil’s untouched skin. “There,” he says, and taps his chin with the back of his pen thoughtfully before adding a smiley face to the end of his number. Then he puts his pen back to his arm and starts sketching. Phil doesn’t think he’s ever seen this boy without a pen attached to his fingers.

“Thanks,” Phil says graciously, remembering his manners at the last second. “I’ll check — and call you.”

“Perfect.”

This sounds like a good enough dismissal, and Phil needs to mull this over, so he gives an uncertain nod before sliding back into his seat.

* * *

 

It’s been two whole weeks since Phil’s picked up that razor. It still sits in his bathroom, taunting, but he hasn’t even shaved, for fear that he might accidentally start again.

Instead, red pen swallows up his left arm, like an explosion of scarlet. The cuts are still there, relatively fresh, but each one has been crisscrossed with markings of a ballpoint pen.

Phil has no idea how, but a thoughtful boy with a colorful arm has saved him, or is starting to.

He wants to hide the razor but he doesn’t want to touch it, or even look at it; he’s taken to using the bathroom down the hall instead of his own. He tells himself to think of Benny, but now routine is taking over, and with it comes that arbitrary feeling of withdrawal.

The pen that he always uses is sitting on his dresser as usual. Seeing the same color as his own blood on his skin is some form of relief, something he saw online somewhere. He’d never tried — couldn’t bring himself to, couldn’t figure why he should, but it is easier and it is better and it hurts less.

He can make swirling lines with pen. He can’t do that with the razor. He can make it squiggle up and down his arm, scribble random gibberish around his wrists.

And he does, words flowing through the ink into letters that spell things out.

He’s run entirely out of space on his left arm: the red takes over his whole arm, leaving next to no blank spaces. He drops the pen on his dresser and then tugs up his right sleeve. Pale skin is marked with ten numbers, scribbled hastily.

Phil pushes his sleeve back down and waits patiently on his bed for his parents to return home. When he hears the door shut ten minutes later, he sits up abruptly and begins descending the stairs. His mum will be surprised, Phil knows. Phil hasn't spoken about anyone at school, full stop, since the year started, and he hasn't mentioned Dan to the two of them except as “a nice guy in his class”.

“Hi, sweetie,” his mum says, pulling him into a tight hug and kissing the top of his head. “How was school?”

“Not bad,” Phil says, which is a lie, because school sucked, like always, but he has more pressing matters.

“What did you do?” His dad asks, and now Phil has to hug him, too.

“Just...work and stuff. Um, I have a question,” he says quickly, before they can ask him what _sort_ of stuff.

“Shoot,” his mum says, heading into the kitchen. “You want some tea?”

“I’m alright,” he replies, and his dad says, “Sure.”

“I can hear you,” his mum says from the kitchen. “Go ahead.”

“Um...remember the nice guy I told you about? Dan? Dan Howell?”

Phil can’t see his mum, but his dad nods. “Yeah,” his mum says.

“He...invited me to his house tomorrow. Can — may I go?”

“Of course!” His dad says, beaming. “Glad to see you’re making friends, kiddo.”

Phil cracks a smile. “Thanks.”

“Do you want me to drive you?”

“I...don’t know.” It strikes him that he doesn’t know where Dan lives. “I’ll call him.”

“Sounds good,” his dad says as his mum bustles back into the dining room.

“You’re going to this Dan’s house?” She asks, her face shining.

Phil nods.

“That’s great! I’m happy for you,” she says.

“Thanks,” Phil mutters. “I’m gonna go upstairs now.”

He won’t show the thrill on his face. He won’t show the feeling that he hasn’t had in months. He won’t let anyone know he has hope, lest it be torn away.

But he walks upstairs determinedly, grabs the razor, and chucks it in the trash. He retrieves a red pen from his drawer and puts it in the spot the razor occupied before.

He surveys the bathroom sink. Everything is the same except the pen.

He tugs off his sweater and all of the red ink on his arm practically screams at him. It makes his head hurt; there’s too much noise.

He’ll call Dan in a bit. First, he has a lot of delicate scrubbing to do.

He pulls off his clothes and turns the bath on, and then lets himself sit in it for awhile, relieved at the feeling of not drowning.

* * *

 

He feels refreshed and unfamiliarly clean when he gets out of the bath, and he dries himself off before picking up the phone to call Dan.

The water that’s slowly draining out of the bathtub is tinted pink from the color on Phil’s arm. He’d scrubbed at it quite a bit, but he’d had to be gentle in case he accidentally reopened any of the cuts on his arm that were slowly healing, and it was tedious work.

He shrugs a bathrobe on, ties a loose knot around his waist, and then picks up the landline and dials the number he’d had the foresight to scratch onto a loose scrap of paper before it washed off his arm.

His heart is beating faster than he’d like to admit, and he can’t really explain why. Perhaps, he thinks, it’s how alien it feels to be on the phone with someone. Phil used to call Benny all the time, until Benny was gone and the phone was just another ghost.

But when he holds it to his ear and it rings twice, it doesn’t feel like a ghost. It feels like a phone, and on the other end, Dan’s voice feels like a clean slate. Phil likes the feeling of clean. He wants to stay that way.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Phil,” Phil says into the receiver, dropping onto his bed as Dan answers him.

“Oh, hello! I hoped you’d call soon. No pressure or anything. So, can you come?”

“Yeah, I just — I don’t know where you live. Is it far?”

“I don’t know where you live either, so I don’t think I could tell you, but it’s near the school, so if you live by the school then it shouldn’t be too far from you.”

“Yeah, I’m within walking distance of the school,” Phil says. “What’s your address?”

Dan starts rattling off numbers, and Phil, in a rush, grabs the nearest pen — a blue ballpoint — and scribbles it onto his arm.

“It’s the one with the tire swing in the front, it’s a little hard to miss,” Dan finishes.

“Okay, thanks.” Phil still feels a little uncertain, like he’s making this all up. “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Well, I thought we were that level of friendship,” Dan says, and even over the metallic buzz of the landline, his voice has the gentle sound it had at the beginning. “It makes sense.”

That’s a nice thought — that Phil could reach _that_ level of friendship with someone other than Benny. He’d spent so much energy on trying to conserve Benny’s memory, he hadn’t realized how destructive he’d been to himself; and he finds it in himself to hope that he can achieve _that_ level of friendship once more. Maybe not Benny levels, but close enough to matter.

“Y-yeah. I should probably — go. I’ll — what time should I come over?”

“Whenever you like. It’s a Saturday, and that means I have no obligations whatsoever, so I’ll be home all day. You just stop by when you want to. Although I can’t promise I won’t be sleeping.”

Phil chuckles nervously. “I’ll come around noon — is that okay? Or too late?”

“It’s perfect. See you tomorrow!” Phil can hear the cheery voice like it’s next to him.

“Bye,” he answers, and then hangs up. He’s really excited about this, but he refuses to get his hopes up _yet._ If Dan can get through a whole day with Phil and still give a crap about him, well, then maybe they’ll be onto something.

* * *

 

Phil is unarmed when he gets to Dan’s house the next day; it really is close, just a quick walk. The only things with him are his phone in one pocket and a blue pen in the other. He checks his phone; it’s quarter to noon. He almost decides to stay outside for another fifteen minutes, but Dan had said whenever, and now _is_ whenever. He presses a finger to the doorbell.

A kind woman answers the door, who Phil takes to be Dan’s mother.

“Hello,” he says awkwardly. “I — I’m Phil.”

“Oh, Dan said you were coming over. He’s in the shower now, he’ll be finished in just a minute,” Dan’s mum says warmly. “I’m Dan’s mother. You can call me Jenna.”

“Hi, ma’am,” Phil says instead. She chuckles.

“Dan? Your friend is here!” She calls to the back of the house.

“What?”

“Your friend is here!”

Phil hears a sudden lack of noise as what he assumes was the shower is turned off, and then again: “WHAT?”

Ms. Howell sighs. “Your friend Phil is here,” she calls out once more.

Dan doesn’t answer, and Phil is left in awkward silence with Ms. Howell. She tells him that the weather has been lovely, and he tells her he agrees. Then they sit quietly until Dan comes out into the living room.

His face is shining from the aftermath of the shower, and Phil is startled to find that Dan’s hair is naturally curly. It frames his face nicely, makes it softer. He looks refreshed, and his eyes are sparkling with the overhead light. He smiles happily. “Hi,” he says, sounding so carefree and relaxed that suddenly Phil feels like a burden. The Howell household holds so much happiness and luminosity that Phil feels as if he just dragged in a black hole with him.

“Hi,” he says, his muscles tensing.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you’d be here ‘til noon and I just woke up half an hour ago,” Dan says apologetically.

“No no no, it’s — you’re fine, it was me, I should’ve gotten here when I —” Phil is inwardly cursing himself when Dan laughs.

“It’s no one’s _fault_ , it was just a mix up,” he says, grinning. “Mum, we’ll be in my room.”

“Have fun,” she says. “I’ll be making lunch.”

She kisses Dan’s cheek and then Dan starts walking down a hallway. Phil quickly follows him.

“So that’s mum and dad’s room, that’s Adrian’s — my brother —, that’s the office and there’s the ‘play’ room,” Dan says, pointing at rooms as they pass, “and _this_ one is mine.”

Phil’s fingers tighten around the sleeve of his sweater as he walks into Dan’s room, and all at once he’s astonished by beautiful art surrounding him on every side. Drawings cover every wall except one, which, oddly, is completely bare. They’re so spectacular and realistic and beautiful that Phil is almost overwhelmed. He forgets, for a second, that he’s anxious about being friends with Dan, and that Benny is dead, and that Dan probably won’t like him very much by the end of his visit. He feels incredibly humbled and also quite small, but not in a bad way, which, really, is how all of Dan’s art makes him feel.

“Fair warning: art nerd,” Dan jokes as he walks past Phil and sits on his bed, head on a pillow.

Phil tears his eyes away from the walls and examines the rest of the room. Other than the drawings, it’s pretty ordinary; a queen sized bed with a green and blue comforter, a beanbag chair in the corner, a brown desk and a spinny chair against one wall, and a closet on the opposite one. There’s a window, too, Phil notices, and light is filtering in through the translucent glass, illuminating the room. The overhead light is off. To conserve energy, maybe.

It strikes Phil that his own room is ordinary, too; not nearly this appealing or lovely to be in, but ordinary, albeit somewhat dark. And Dan is ordinary, except that he’s extraordinary, but if Phil focuses, he can see an ordinary boy inside there, and that makes him feel better. He relaxes, breathes out, and actually chuckles.

“That wasn’t a fair warning,” he says. “I wasn’t prepared.”

“Well, not much to do in this room, so I like to waste paper.”

“Is that why your light is off? Are you making up your lack of conservation of paper by conserving energy?”

“If that wasn’t the reason before, it is now,” Dan says, nodding agreeably. “Do you wanna sit?”

Phil glances around. There are so many places to sit that he feels like he ought to just stand, but under his feet is a soft, fluffy carpet, so Phil just sits on the floor.

It only occurs to him after he sits that that’s not a normal thing, and he starts to blush. “Sorry, I just —”

“Why are you always apologizing?” Dan slides off his bed so he’s on the floor too, facing Phil. “You didn’t do anything wrong. There, now we’re even.”

Phil giggles uncharacteristically. “Fine.”

Then they sit in a silence that makes Phil want to squirm, until Dan says, “So how was your Friday night?”

“Good,” Phil says. “Better that I got to sleep in this morning.”

“Agreed. Sleep is amazing.”

Phil nods. “You slept later than I did, though,” he says. “I woke up at half past eight.”

“What?!” Dan’s eyes widen comically.

“I — yeah,” he says, biting his tongue so he doesn’t apologize again. Saying sorry is his default, and no one had ever told him he apologized too much. Then again, no one had ever been Dan.

“Amazing,” Dan says, shaking his head. “How do you do it?”

“Uh...I just do,” he answers.

Dan blows air out through his mouth, his mouth vibrating and making a buzzing noise. Then he lays down on his carpet. “You know, I don’t really sit on this carpet very often. I mean, I don’t think I give it enough credit. Or attention. It’s always there. I never appreciated it, but this carpet is freaking amazing. Feel it! Feel how soft it is! This is the stuff of clouds,” he says earnestly, walking his fingers absently through the rug. Then he jumps up suddenly and starts to rummage through his drawers.

“Yeah,” Phil says watching as Dan pulls out, to no surprise, a blue pen. He uncaps it and scratches down a couple of words onto a space at the top of his forearm, and then, satisfied, he tosses the pen onto his bed before sitting back onto the floor. Phil leans over and peers at the words: _the stuff of clouds_.

“Sorry,” Dan says. “I didn’t want to forget.”

“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong,” Phil says with a grin. On the receiving end, he realizes just how ridiculous it sounds for Dan to apologize like that.

Dan laughs. “Touché.” He flips over and rolls onto his stomach, his head resting on his hands, elbows pressed into the rug. Phil, sitting cross-legged, moves back a bit.

“Your hair is naturally curly?” he asks.

Dan nods, blowing a curl out of his face carelessly. “Mhm. Never really decided how to feel about it. I like it when it’s straight — like yours — but people are always saying it looks nice when it’s curly. I don’t know. I would’ve straightened it, but you were here — not that I mind keeping it curly,” he adds quickly, as Phil opens his mouth to apologize again. “Phil, why are you always sorry about everything? Did you make every mistake and now you’re just catching up on apologies?”

He means it as a joke, but Phil’s cheeks heat up. “I dunno,” he mumbles. “I guess it just seems like someone should apologize, and no one ever does. So I do.”

Dan cocks his head, which, in Phil’s opinion, makes him look like a confused puppy. He studies Phil’s face, hovering over his cheeks and hair and then catching his eyes. “That is an interesting thought that never occurred to me. Why should someone apologize when something bad happens?”

Phil looks away and clears his throat, in a valiant effort to regain his confidence. It’s hard, when someone like Dan is staring at him so intently. “Because otherwise it’s impolite?”

“I guess,” Dan says, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “If it’s someone’s fault, I mean if someone actually does something which they ought to be sorry for, I mean for which they ought to be sorry, that makes sense. But what if it’s no one’s fault, then who’s supposed to apologize?”

Phil considers this. “Me?”

“Objection,” Dan answers, lifting a finger. “You did nothing wrong. The jury has ruled you innocent.”

Phil snorts. “Okay, Dan.”

Dan jumps up suddenly, startling Phil. “Let’s go outside,” he suggested.

Phil likes it in Dan’s room; it’s safe and comfy and enclosed, and he can’t say the sunlight is very tempting, but he’s a guest here and he doesn’t want Dan to hate him. “Sure.”

Dan hops up quicker than Phil could’ve imagined, then holds out a hand to Phil. “Up,” he instructs. Phil clasps his hand and pulls himself to his feet.

“Thanks,” he says, rubbing his hand absently against the front of his t-shirt, as if cleaning it off.

“All good. Shall we?” Dan says, and he takes off out his bedroom door and down the hall.

* * *

 

As soon as Phil’s eyes adjust to the light, he catches Dan’s; the sunlight makes them glow amber and golden. It’s bright and sunny out, the sun quickly coming out from behind the trees and clouds to lighten the new spring air. In his owl sweater, which is a deep gray color, Phil is sweating, but he doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t want Dan to ask why he never wears short sleeves. Still, Dan’s skin is shining with the light, and as he sits down and breathes out a happy sigh, Phil wishes he could feel the delicate spring breeze. It blows on his face, but it’s not really the same feeling.

Dan lays down in the grass on his back, the sun beating down on him. His eyes are shut. “Join me, Phil,” he says, attempting a Darth Vader voice.

“I’m tempted to not, just because of that terrible voice,” Phil says, chuckling, but he lays in the grass beside Dan, throwing an arm over his eyes and shutting them to keep the sun out. It’s making him drowsy.

“Why don’t you take your sweater off?” Dan suggests, tilting his head sideways to see Phil. “You know it’s, like, a billion degrees out.”

“It’s not that hot,” he mumbles.

“It is too. Although spring is weird and confusing, really. Because it’s like — some years winter lasts forever, I mean, some years it would still be happening right now, but this year spring is happening right on time. I mean, kind of. March is technically the start of spring, but it was still kind of chilly then. It’s warm now, though. Anyway, why do people wear sweaters during hot seasons? I don’t see any point.”

“Because just yes,” Phil says, praying Dan will drop the matter.

“If you can give me a solid reason, I’ll drop it,” Dan says. “I don’t want you to melt.”

“I won’t melt,” he promises. “It’s just a comfortable sweater.”

Dan fixes him with a strange look, then sighs and says, “I surrender. You win the battle of the sweatshirts. Ten XP to you.”

“You’re such a nerd,” Phil says with a laugh.

“Thanks.”

The sun is against them, and Phil feels very sleepy with the warmth of the rays hitting his face and his eyes closed to keep the sunlight out. The grass is soft, which is not something that Phil finds commonly, as most grass is prickly and uncomfortable to even stand on.

“Wake up, Phil,” Dan says, chuckling, and Phil cracks his eyes open and takes his arm off his face. It sticks for a moment from the sweat gathering.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he says.

“It’s the heat,” Dan continues. “Why does heat make people drowsy? I never understood that. It’s just heat.”

“Because your body is working to regulate your body temperature,” Phil says, instinctively, because he knows. Dan looks over at him.

“How does that work?” he says slowly. Phil thinks it’s a little self-explanatory, and now he feels like he answered it too quickly, like he wasn’t supposed to. He hesitantly explains:

“The sun is hot, obviously, and the heat increases your body temperature, which means your body has to work harder to regulate the temperature. Because your body is working harder than usual, you feel tired. It’s also why you sweat,” he adds. “It’s an external way of cooling yourself down. Homeostasis, and all.” Then he stops short, worried he’s spoken too much. Trying to make Dan like him has made Phil ten times more aware of everything he does.

“I never knew that,” Dan says, smiling in awe. “Do you just know stuff like that?”

“Uh…” Phil rolls onto his side, facing Dan. “I like science, I guess.”

“Wouldn’t have put you down for a science person, but now that you’ve said it it seems fitting,” Dan says.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Sure.”

Phil is taken aback when Dan moves suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. He gets up and trails behind Dan, who seems to have a destination in mind.

“Check it out,” he says, and plucks a dandelion out of the ground between his forefinger and his thumb.

“You know those are weeds,” Phil says, approaching.

“Yeah,” Dan answers, looking at the flower. “Funny how weeds can look so pretty. Similar to how assholes can look so nice.”

He drops the flower and Phil is thinking about that, and then he crosses the yard and returns with a leaf with spikes all over it.

“And yet,” he continues, looking at the plant, “plants covered in spikes can be so helpful and valuable on the inside. Similar to how people who are guarded are actually the kindest.” He snaps the leaf in half. “Aloe vera,” he explains. Gel oozes from the insides of the green. “For the sunburns I will undoubtedly have when summer strikes.”

Phil is turning over Dan’s words in his mind. He’s sure that Dan is hinting at him, at Phil, for being guarded, and he becomes self-conscious once more, as if it’s something that Dan doesn’t like about him. There’s nothing he can do to be less cautious, though — he is constantly inclined to stay inside and never make friends again, so as to avoid getting hurt, but he’d tried that, and — he fingers tighten around his sleeve — so much for not getting hurt.

“You want to go inside?” Dan asks Phil. “It’s getting hot out and I think lunch will be ready soon.”

“Yeah,” Phil says gratefully, glad to get out of the sun. His fingers are curled around the sleeve of his sweater and he feels like he’s made of magma inside the jumper.

Dan leads them inside, _tsk-_ ing as he goes. “Told you to take off that sweater,” he admonishes, but it’s a joking tone.

Phil wishes to god he _could_ take off his sweater, but he just had to go and defile his stupid arm.

Dan’s mum finds them as they re-enter Dan’s room. Phil is still adjusting to all of the artwork, and he walks up to the wall, drinking in each sketch. They seem so random yet they’re all so beautiful. An open book. A dog, lying down. Socks. A cute little house. Pie. A faceless person, hair falling in front of their face. He’s almost mesmerized by them until a knocking sound comes from the doorway.

He turns away from the wall and sees that the door is open, and Dan’s mum has just knocked on the doorframe. Phil hasn’t left his door open since Benny died.

“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” Ms. Howell says to Phil, gesturing at the wall. Phil rubs his arm unconsciously.

“Yeah,” he answers. “They are.”

“I keep telling him, and he never listens,” Ms. Howell says with a bemused expression.

“Shush,” Dan says, grinning at her, and she kisses his cheeks and hands him the piece of paper she’s got held in her hand. It’s a letter, Phil realizes. From whom?

“You’ve got mail,” Ms. Howell says, and Dan grabs the letter and lets out a shriek of excitement before clutching it to his chest and saying, in a carefully controlled voice, “PJ!”

Right, the guy that Dan had mentioned writing letters to, Phil recalls. He suddenly feels like a serious third wheel, like he’s intruding on this moment that Dan ought to share with PJ.

“You want to open it? I’ll sit quietly,” Phil suggests as Ms. Howell leaves.

Dan looks up, blinking at Phil. “What? No, I can wait. That’s rude. I’m just excited.”

Phil sits down on Dan’s beanbag chair. “Tell me about PJ.”

This seems like common ground, and Dan’s eyes light up. “Seriously? I mean, I’d be happy to, just —”

“Yeah,” Phil interrupts. “Tell me about all of your friends, actually.”

He’s interested in Dan’s life, interested in what he has to say, interested, really, in hearing him talk. The way people describe their friends says a lot about them.

So Dan starts to describe PJ, sitting cross-legged on his bedspread, arms gesturing animatedly, about green eyes and wild dreams. Phil thinks PJ sounds like the perfect match for Dan.

Benny was the perfect match for Phil. So why’d he have to go?

* * *

 

It’s taken an hour, but the time has flown so quickly that neither boys realize it until Dan takes a final breath and says, “I think that’s everyone.”

“You,” Phil says, astonished, “have a lot of friends.”

“Thanks,” Dan says, seeming very cheerful. “Why don’t you tell me about your friends?”

This is not common ground; this is unsafe territory, and Phil clenches his fist and carefully says, “I’m alright, I’m not as good at talking as you.”

“That’s fine — I rambled on for — holy shit — sorry — it’s been nearly an hour?” Dan is alarmed at the number, and then he adds, “Why didn’t mum come get us for lunch? _Mum!_ ”

Her name rings through the hallway, and Phil hears it echo through the hall. The rapid pace of his heart is subsiding along with the fear of having to describe his friends and reveal that, in truth, he has no friends.

He’s learned about PJ and PJ’s new friend Chris, and Charlie and Louise and Cat, and Tyler and Jack and he’s amazed yet not surprised that so many people like Dan, and that he speaks about it like it’s normal. Even before Benny died, Phil only ever had about four friends, and he always was close to them but not close enough to light up whenever he spoke about them.

Ms. Howell appears in the doorway. “I was going to call you for lunch, but you sounded busy and I didn’t want to interrupt,” she says quickly at the look on Dan’s face.

“We’re hungry!” Dan insists. “I mean — I think. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Phil says, relieved at any reason to avoid mentioning how few friends he has — in fact, how he has none at all.

“Well, come eat!” she says, chuckling.

They both stand and walk through the doorway, and Phil sweeps his eyes once more over the room, drowning in blue.

* * *

 

Cue the montage.

Dan’s not tired of Phil.

In fact, Dan seems to enjoy Phil’s presence.

And Phil is finding Dan’s presence equally pleasant.

It’s nice to have a friend, and Phil is slowly starting to feel closer to Dan, which also feels nice.

Instead of rejecting him, Dan accepts him — and Phil almost feels like he’s learning something from Dan. Sure, he’s being friendly and kind to him, but Dan is teaching him that there’s _more._

That there’s more than sitting in the dark. More than razor blades. More than bad grades because you have no energy to care. More than angry cuts. More than constant fury at things you can’t fix.

Somehow, Dan’s pulling the sun out from behind this eternal cloud. Telling him that there’s still a sun in the sky, and there are still butterflies on flowers, and still raindrops on roses, and still cardinals in trees, and still people who can be happy. And Phil had almost forgotten the feeling of his face in anything but a frown, but Dan has told him he’s allowed to smile.

The following week, Dan wants to go on an adventure.

“Phil!” As soon as Phil walks through the door of his English class, Dan is calling him. Pleasantly surprised, he approaches Dan’s desk and his eyes are drawn to the fresh words in block letters on his arm — this time they’re just a bunch of reminders.

_PRINT PAPER_

_JEANS_

_REPAY PHIL!!!_

_WRITE PJ FFS_

He almost laughs, but instead looks at Dan. “You don’t need to repay me,” he says.

Dan facepalms. “Damn! I forgot your money,” he says, but the grief doesn’t linger. He looks up at Phil. “Hey, what are your thoughts on bike rides?”

“I…” _Don’t really like them,_ he thinks, but truthfully he hasn’t gone on his bike for so long it’s probably too small for him. “Am willing to do it,” he says finally.

“Good — can we go on a bike ride sometime this week? I haven’t gone biking in ages and my mum is making me go out and it would honestly be more fun with you,” Dan says hopefully.

“Yeah,” Phil replies. “I’ll ask about it.”

Dan smiles and returns to sketching on his paper.

Phil sits.

* * *

 

The week after the bike ride, a movie. They watch _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ , even though they’ve both seen it a hundred times, but Phil hasn’t watched it in a while and they both love it anyway, so they flick the lights off in Dan’s living room and pop some popcorn that Phil eats most of.

Then it’s a walk through a beautiful park near the school. It’s the middle of April and the chill of winter has receded, leaving a light breeze and floating flower petals drifting lazily through the air and landing softly on the green grass. They lie down on the ground and discuss the sun and some other matters of no value.

Afterwards, Dan invites Phil to sleep over at his house someday. Phil says he’ll think about it.

He asks his mum and dad and they’re thrilled, and they tell him yes, of course he can sleep over at Dan’s house as long as he’s back by dinner Sunday night. Phil is left to think deeply about the matter. Does he want to sleep over at Dan’s house?

The answer, of course, is yes, but he still has those stupid scars on his arm and he has always worn a sweater in Dan’s presence, even when he was sweating from their bike ride. What will Dan think when he gets in bed in the same sweatshirt he’s been wearing all day?

He calls Dan and tells him that his mum said he couldn’t because he has chores. Dan understands. “Another time?” he asks, and Phil has to say yes and hope that eventually it’ll be true.

“Another time,” he confirms.

His mum asks when he’s leaving for Dan’s, and Phil says that it turns out Dan is busy this weekend.

“Bummer,” his mum says sympathetically.

“Yeah.” Phil kisses her cheek. “Now I can spend the evening with you, though.”

The weeks melt by and Phil finds himself gradually telling Dan everything there is to know about him: the music he likes, the foods he refuses to eat, the clothes he likes to wear, the things he enjoys doing, his favorite video game and type of dog and class at school. Dan reciprocates by telling Phil about his friends and his least favorite video games and the words he thinks are gross, foods he can’t get enough of, all the reasons he wants a dog and all the reasons he can’t have one, his favorite color, his dream job (artist or stage actor). The only thing Phil doesn’t tell Dan is about Benny and the scars.

After a month of deliberating, Phil decides he can’t avoid Dan’s invitation forever. On Friday when he walks into English class and heads for Dan’s desk, as he always does, he says, “Hey, do you want to have a sleepover this weekend?”

The moment the words exit his mouth he starts to second-guess them, but it’s too late and there’s no going back. He reminds himself that, whatever the situation, he does _want_ to spend the night at Dan’s. He wants to have the cookie dough ice cream and the terrible high school musical movie marathon they agreed they would have and the midnight conversations and the snacking at one in the morning.

Dan lifts his eyes from the sketch on his paper and grins. “I’m so glad you asked! I would love to. Do you want to do it at my house or yours?”

“Yours is good,” Phil says.

“Awesome. I’ll tell my mum,” Dan says.

“Perhaps I can meet your brother finally,” Phil jokes, because since the first day when Dan had pointed out Adrian’s room Phil had been on the lookout for Dan’s brother, but Dan rarely brought him up and Phil had never met him.

There’s an infinitesimal moment of silence before Dan chuckles. “I...don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he has plans.”

“Jesus, for an eighth grader, he has a wild social life,” Phil says. “When I was in eighth grade I —” He blanks a moment, remembering Benny,  remembering his life before what has become The Accident in his mind, remembering that Dan doesn’t and shouldn’t know about that. “I didn’t have that many friends,” he finishes, hoping he hadn’t stumbled over his words.

Dan nods, slightly vacant in his stare too, until he blinks and says, “Yeah. Well, I’ll tell my mum and you can come over anytime.”

“Tonight or tomorrow?” Phil asks.

“Tomorrow?” Dan suggests.

“Tomorrow,” Phil replies, and the anxiousness is still there, but he can feel it’s being lightened just a bit at the prospect of actually spending the night with Dan.

“Perfect,” Dan says, smiling excitedly. “Hey, did you know my birthday is in a week?”

“ _What_ ,” Phil says, surprised.

“Yeah, I’m gonna be sixteen,” Dan says eagerly.

“I’m already sixteen. You are inferior to me,” Phil says, taking an air of superiority as his mind races already with ideas of what to get him for his birthday.

Dan smacks him gently. “Shut up.”

Phil feels something bubble up in his throat, and as he opens his mouth he finds it laughter, ringing in his ears.

Dan giggles too, then says, “Okay, go sit. The bell is going to ring.”

Phil nods and goes back to his seat.

* * *

 

Phil’s parents nod an enthusiastic _yes_ when he asks if he can stay over at Dan’s on Saturday night. “As long as you like,” his mum says. “As long as you’re home for dinner on Sunday.”

“I will be,” Phil promises, and hugs his mum. He’s not sure what’s compelled him to do it, but it feels appropriate and she certainly doesn’t deny him, instead tightly holding him to her chest and kissing his hair.

“Oh, I love you, Philip, you know that?” she murmurs.

Philip bites back a witty reply. “Love you too,” he mumbles.

“Now go! Do teenager things. I’m making dinner,” she says, shooing him back to his bedroom. He hides a chuckle as he takes the stairs two at a time back to his bedroom.

Safely tucked away with the door shut, he tugs his jumper off and analyses his arms critically. They’re still covered in healing scars, but the sight of them no longer makes him want to scratch himself up all over again. He remembers the feeling of disposing of that god awful razor. Benny’s voice floats to the top his head. _I’m proud of you._

Phil sits down silently on the edge of his duvet. What on earth has Phil done to inspire pride in the one person Phil’s ever cared the most about? He glances back at his arm. Lines are distinctly marked in his skin in a reddish pink, and he has a gut feeling they’ll never be completely gone. He doesn’t want Dan to know. He’ll just have to wear long sleeves. He knows it’s summer. He’s sure Dan will ask questions. Dan will just have to deal with it.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s going out at all. Maybe leaving his house and interacting with another person is enough for Benny’s voice to remind Phil that he’s _proud_. And Phil feels like a young child who’s just completed some mundane, easy task but feels deeply accomplished, because young children never know that a small milestone isn’t as big as they think.

“Is this a milestone?” he asks under his breath. “Is this a big thing, Benny?”

He stops. Talking to himself is weird. Talking to his dead best friend is weirder.

A hesitance forces itself into his mind as he thinks those words. _Best friend._ Would Phil still honestly call Benny his best friend? Benny doesn’t know anything about Phil anymore. He’s changed since Benny died. He’s never had reluctance in referring to Benny simply as the Best Friend, but Dan is giving him a run for his money. So, what? Is Dan his best friend?

It’s altogether too much for Phil to think about. He’ll get through the sleepover and have an amazing time, because Dan is amazing. And that will be all. And _then,_ he thinks, well, that will definitely be a milestone.

Besides, he’s looking forward to meeting Adrian.

* * *

 

The doorbell rings in the Howell household at around six in the evening, and the sun is still high in the sky, casting light over the house and the tire swing in their front yard and the trees decorating the grassy area in the front of the house. Dan opens the door excitedly.

“Hey!” he greets Phil cheerily, and Phil steps inside, painfully conscious of the fact that he’s holding a bag full of clothes and a couple of miscellaneous but necessary items. Walking into people’s houses holding things has always been a weakness of his, like he’s taking up more space than he needs to be — thankfully, Dan takes his bag off his hands.

“C’mon,” he says, but Phil knows the way to his room by now and could probably find it with his eyes closed, so he lets his eyes wander a little bit. They stray to the closed door that he’s been informed leads to Adrian’s room. The lights seem like they’re off — darkness is coming from under the door, and nothing else.

Dan puts Phil’s stuff on the floor by his bed, and Phil sees that Dan’s already got a bed set up for him. “Are you okay on the floor?” he asks uncertainly. “It was the easiest thing, so I just —”

“It’s okay, it’s fine, it’s great,” Phil says, a smile hesitantly crossing his face. “Thanks for setting this up.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” Dan spreads his arms.

“Ice cream and crappy sleepover movies?” Phil suggests, and Dan laughs.

“We have all three _High School Musical_ movies and two flavors of ice cream. Am I the best sleepover buddy yet or what?”

“Don’t get a big head, I only just got here,” Phil admonishes, jokingly shaking his head at Dan. They sit cross-legged on the soft rug on Dan’s floor; ever since the first day, when Phil had sat there for lack of a better place, it’s become a sort of tradition, and Phil _loves_ that he has a tradition with Dan, regardless of what it is.

“So where’s your brother?” Phil asks conversationally. “When am I gonna meet him? He seems pretty cool for a kid.”

Dan’s eyes flash worry for a split second, but they return to a relaxed expression so quickly Phil thinks he must have imagined it. “Unfortunately, he isn’t home. He’s sleeping over at his friend’s house.” Dan’s speech is stilted, but Phil ignores it.

“Darn! Missed again,” he says, grinning as he does an over-the-top impression of Swiper the fox from Dora the Explorer. Dan laughs and the tension in his face drains away.

“Dan? Oh, Phil! Hello,” Ms. Howell says, peeking her head in the doorway of the bedroom. Phil jumps at the sound, then smiles at the voice.

“Hi, Ms. Howell,” he says. He loves Dan’s mum — she’s always so sweet and kind and she gives him snacks.

“When will you learn to drop the formalities?” she reprimands teasingly. “Just call me Jenna, sweetheart. And boys, dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes. Phil, are you allergic to anything?”

Phil shakes his head. “Thank you, Jenna,” he says. He feels strange using her first name, but Jenna just gives him a smile.

“Anytime. You two have fun!” she says, blows a kiss at Dan, then disappears into the hallway.

“Your mum’s amazing,” Phil admits to Dan, whose face seems to brighten at the words.

“Do you think so? That’s always so nice to hear. You know, I love when people say they like my family. It’s like secondhand pride. Like you know how you can get secondhand embarrassment? Well, it’s like that, but instead I’m just really happy. Anyway, I’m glad you like her. I like her too,” Dan says. He’s talking in paragraphs again and Phil loves to hear the words spilling out of his mouth. He laughs.

“I should hope so,” Phil says. “She is your mother.”

“What about your parents? I’ve never met them. Are they nice?” After a slight pause, Dan rectifies: “They must be nice. To raise a kid like you? I don’t doubt for a second you must have the greatest parents. Maybe second greatest. Okay, I’m a bit biased. My parents are pretty awesome, I gotta admit. But I’m sure yours are equally awesome.”

“They’re pretty great,” Phil agrees.

And the evening passes. Dinner is pasta with some tasty homemade tomato sauce and a salad, and Phil has never really liked salad, but upon eating a skeptical helping, he finds it’s most likely just because he’s never had any — salad is _good_. Plus, he feels healthier. So that’s a bonus.

After dinner, Dan puts in the first _HSM_ movie, scoops them both cookie dough ice cream with some Hershey’s chocolate sauce, and they eat as they watch, laughing at parts that don’t make sense and rolling their eyes at all the cheesy Disney moments. Dan keeps a running commentary for almost the entirety of the movie, and Phil loves hearing him talk about it, even though most of what he’s saying is just sarcastic comments and goofy, outrageous suggestions. He also says “Heteronormativity is toxic!” at least twice, and every time Ryan appears onscreen, Dan breaks out into a grin and says “He’s dramatically gay. You see it, don’t you?”

Phil sees it. Mostly, Phil sees Dan having a wonderful time, and he can feel himself having a wonderful time too. His long sleeves cover his forearms and the heels of his palms, but the air conditioning is on in the house and it’s a good enough excuse to keep the shirt on. After they finish the first film they put in the second one. Their ice cream bowls are on the floor, pushed carefully away from anywhere they might accidentally put their feet. Now the space between them is dwindling and Phil can feel Dan beside him, can feel his body emanating warmth next to him on the couch. He ignores it. He also ignores the feeling that yanks at his stomach.

After the movie ends at around midnight, they admit defeat and trudge down the hall back to Dan’s room, collapsing in their respective beds.

“I hate to admit it, but I’m actually tired,” Dan says resignedly. “You wanna stay up, or what?”

“I’m tired too,” Phil confesses. “If we could just sleep —”

“I agree,” Dan says. “You can brush your teeth and change into your pajamas in the bathroom — I’ll just —” He waves vaguely in the direction of the door, and Phil laughs.

“What, you’re going to skip brushing your teeth?” he scolds.

“That depends on how much you’re going to judge me for it,” Dan counters.

Phil releases the air from his lungs in the form of a long sigh, then yawns loudly. “I won’t judge you at all, actually. I could seriously just fall asleep right now.”

“It’s a mutual agreement not to judge each other for skipping out on brushing teeth,” Dan sums up.

“Seems so. Although I’m not turning the lights off.” Phil almost smirks to himself — god, when was the last time he _smirked_? — and slips under the thin covers laid out perfectly on the bed made for him on the mattress on the floor. Dan groans overdramatically, then flings an arm over his forehead.

“The troubles and woes thou causeth me!” he says theatrically. Then he rolls out of bed, stumbles to the light switch, flicks it off, and kicks his door shut lazily. The room is awash in darkness now, filling Phil’s eyes and causing them to close. Sleep tugs at him invitingly, and he mumbles out, “Hey, goodnight, Dan.”

“G’night,” Dan answers, the drowsiness apparent in his voice too. There’s something else, too, underneath all that exhaustion, but Phil is too tired to try and detect just what it is, so he yields to sleep and drifts into dreams.

* * *

 

Dan gets a polaroid camera for his birthday, and he jumps around like a little boy on Christmas.

He tears the paper off the wrapped box and the Fujifilm Instax Mini 8 in black peeks out. He lets out a loud shriek, jumps up, and runs to hug his mum and dad.

“That is exactly what I wanted! Literally the exact thing I wanted, thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!” he says, his excitement uncontained. As he hugs them, Phil picks up the box and turns it over in his hands. The polaroid is black, which Phil doesn’t think befits Dan’s personality at all, but it is a very nice camera (or at least it appears that way from the box).

“You’re welcome, love,” his mum says, smiling happily at her son. “One of those other boxes has the film.”

Dan lets out another excited noise, and Phil watches them hug, and thinks that Dan’s got one of the best families he’s ever met.

It strikes him suddenly that Adrian isn’t here.

Phil is starting to think that Adrian is a serious prick. He can’t even be bothered to be here for Dan’s birthday? But Dan is so happy that Phil doesn’t want to say anything. Besides, as long as Dan is smiling, Adrian doesn’t have to be here. Surely Dan’s noticed he’s gone anyway.

Dan returns to the carpet and sits cross-legged, his foot jiggling impatiently, prepared to obliterate the rest of the boxes.

“Did you like your gift, then?” Phil asks, chuckling.

Dan grins so wide Phil thinks his face will break. “Loved it.”

“I noticed.”

Dan surveys the unopened presents, picks one out and rips the paper off. Sure enough, it’s the film for his polaroid.

“May I try it now?” He asks eagerly to his mum.

“Of course,” Ms. Howell answers, a smile still gracing her lips. “Your birthday, your present. You’ll need to put some batteries in, though.”

That’s all Dan needs to rip the boxes with the camera and film open. He clicks the two AA batteries in place, then, with little difficulty, he puts the film into the camera. He takes a quick picture of the floor, and to Phil’s confused expression he says, “I need to take a picture to get the black plastic thing out. I read an article about how to put the film in, and that’s what it said.”

As promised, the black plastic thing pops out of the top of the camera, and Dan excitedly examines the camera, sleek yet cozy. Then, quickly, he holds the camera out the put both himself and Phil in the frame. Phil shakes his head out of instinct.

“Sorry, Dan, I don’t do pictures,” he apologizes, but Dan laughs.

“That’s what you think. Sadly for you, it’s my birthday, meaning I can play the birthday card and make you take this photo with me,” he says slyly.

Phil eyes him. “You sneaky little fox.”

“I do my best. Come on, just one. For the memories,” Dan says, and Phil sighs, braces himself, then does his most convincing smile. It isn’t hard to summon a grin when Dan looks so utterly pleased with his gift, and just as the shutter clicks, Dan digs his index finger into Phil’s side, throwing him off and causing him to laugh.

“You are the worst!” he says after he gasps a breath. Dan is cackling, and he pats Phil on the back as he calms himself down.

“You’re so ticklish, Phil, it’s hardly my fault. Anyway, you’re going to be smiling in the picture.”

Dan tugs the picture out of the top of the camera and hands it to Phil, who starts to shake the blank white thing.

“Polar bear in a snowstorm,” he observes, and Dan knits his brow.

“What?”

“Um, just something my dad says — when there’s a blank sheet of paper or something he just says it’s a drawing of a polar bear in a snowstorm,” Phil explains timidly.

Dan giggles. “That’s amazing. Hey, look at the picture!”

Phil obliges, and he’s surprised to see a wide smile crossing his face, eyes squeezed shut. Dan’s looking at him, not the camera, and it’s _just_ a little bit blurry, and Phil loves it.

He hands it over to Dan. “You’re right, it’s wonderful. Come on, open your presents, I’m getting impatient.”

Dan seems to be having an internal debate, which ends in him setting the camera and the picture down beside him and turning to the rest of the presents. “Help me open these?” he offers Phil.

“They’re your presents,” Phil says, gesturing. “Destroy them.”

“Helpppp meeee,” Dan whines, tugging on Phil’s arm.

Phil laughs. “Alright, alright.”

Mr. and Ms. Howell watch from the couch as their son and his friend begin to tear off the wrapping paper of the last three gifts.

One of them is Phil’s, so Phil grabs one that he knows isn’t his and opens that instead. Dan grabs Phil’s.

Instead of opening the gift in his hand, Phil watches as Dan attacks the wrapping of his present. Inside is a book.

Phil feels incredibly lame, but it is his favorite book and he wants Dan to read it too. “ _The Secret Garden,_ ” Dan reads aloud, and there’s a sinking feeling in Phil’s stomach when he realizes that this book was a stupid idea for a gift.

But then Dan tackles him with a hug. “Did you know I’ve always wanted to read that book?” He says, his voice loud because he’s close to Phil’s ear.

Phil didn’t know that, but now that he does he feels infinitely better. Dan releases him and says, “I remember you told me it was your favorite book. I kept meaning to read it but we don’t have it.”

“Oh, Phil, you got him _The Secret Garden?_ That’s a wonderful book,” Ms. Howell says, her warm smile matching her voice as she regards Phil.

Phil blushes. “It’s my favorite.”

“You have great taste,” she says approvingly.

“Thank you!” Dan says happily, and he squeezes Phil into another hug. Phil hugs him back, thankful and relieved that the wait is over.

The rest of the presents go by in a whirl and Phil only relaxes and sits back as Dan tears through the remaining boxes and wrappings. Finally, surrounded in ripped paper, Dan has gotten through the last of them.

“Best birthday ever,” he declares. “Thank you. Seriously. Mum, dad, I love you guys. Phil, I’m so excited to read this book. And — are you staying over?”

Phil shakes his head remorsefully. “I have to get home, sorry.” He checks the time on his phone. “Actually, I should probably leave about now.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Dan gives Phil a big hug and Phil swears Dan’s holding him tighter than usual, definitely tighter than he needs to, but he lets it slide. It’s his birthday, he reasons. “See you later?”

“Yeah, at school, tomorrow,” Phil says, grinning. “‘Bye, Jenna. Mr. Howell. Great to see you guys. See you, Dan.” He can’t remember a time when he’d smiled as much as he’s been smiling recently.

Dan hums softly to himself as Phil leaves.

His parents exchange looks, then look at Dan.

“Dan,” his father begins. “This isn’t what you want to hear on your birthday, but we have a little bit of news.”

* * *

 

“I’m moving.”

“Excuse me?”

The words leave Dan’s mouth and all Phil can think is that this can’t be happening again, no, no, _no,_ his heart is clenching up and he feels like he’s going to vomit, but instead he tries to think straight and grits his teeth and repeats, “You’re moving? Where to?”

“Norwich,” Dan says, like it’s difficult for him to get the words out almost as much as it’s hard for Phil to hear them. “Where PJ lives. My mum got a job, it’s not even a full year, just a few months, but...yeah. I’m leaving.”

Norwich. Norwich. That’s at least two hours away. Two hours. There’s no way Phil’s ever getting there. He feels like something is blocking his windpipe. And where PJ lives, no less. _Awesome,_ Phil thinks bitterly, clenching his fist. _Reunite with your real best friend._ The bitterness melts away and leaves only loneliness and sadness and the feeling of being suffocated. He shakes his head rapidly.

“No way. Norwich. That’s...that’s far. That’s really far, Dan.”

“I know. I don’t want to go.”

“But you — but you have a friend there.”

“So? I have a friend here. You think I want to leave you?” Dan asks, and his tone is as gentle as it was the day they met, and sitting on Dan’s comforter in Dan’s room for what may well be the last time, Phil wants to break down into tears.

“When are you leaving?” he asks instead, to occupy his mind, to use his voice for something other than crying.

“Almost immediately after the year ends,” Dan says, and he sounds so forlorn when he says it. Their tenth year is almost over — there are hardly two weeks left, and neither of them have begun studying for their final exams yet. Phil can’t imagine he’ll be seeing _more_ of Dan once they start — or once Dan starts, because even if Phil had an intention of making an effort to pass the tests before, he doesn’t have any motivation now. If Dan won’t even be at _school_ next year, what’s the point of returning?

It all rushes at him at once — Benny, the cutting, his new friendship, Dan moving — and Phil squeezes tears out of his eyes, angrily wipes at them, and says in a rush, “I have something to tell you.”

Dan seems concerned, if only from the tears slipping down Phil’s cheeks and onto his lap, but Phil knows it’s the least of his apprehensions. With a quick sideways glance to make sure the bedroom door is closed, he takes a deep, heavy breath and pushes his sleeves up. There’s no going back.

Dan gasps audibly, bites his lip; worry blossoms in his expression as he looks at the scars lining Phil’s arms.

“Phil — oh my god, Phil, why didn’t you —” Dan whispers, and Phil cuts him off.

“I had this friend,” he starts. “His name was Benny.”

Dan won’t want to know this story, but this is it. This is all Phil has left to tell, and then, maybe, Dan can take it with him to Norwich and remember all of Phil — or maybe he’ll ditch Phil completely, but even he knows that’s not what’s going to happen.

“In sixth year he was my best friend,” Phil continues, and forces his voice to be firm and unwavering. “And he had some friends that were by default my friends too, but he was my only _real_ friend, my best friend.”

Dan looks scared of the ending of this story, and is captivated by the splotches of red where Phil can never help but scratch his arm.

“He was my best friend up until he died — in a car accident,” Phil continues, and he hates that his voice is shaking now. “Just before tenth year began. Six months ago. Six months ago I got a phone call and the voice on the other end of the line said that Benny was dead and all I could think was my fault, my fault, I don’t know how I drew that conclusion, but I did.” His voice cracks. “And then I did whatever _this_ is — disfigured my arm. And that’s why I always wear long sleeves, and why I didn’t want to sleep over, and why I was so afraid to talk to you, and why I was so surprised when you became my friend, and why I apologize for everything. After Benny, I had nothing. And now I have you,” Phil inhales in a desperate attempt to keep his voice calm, “but now you’re leaving.”

In his most vulnerable moment, Dan breaks into tears with him, and pulls him into a hug, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into Phil’s shoulder, nearly sobs the words. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to leave, and I wish I could stay, and I will spend every possible moment I can with you until I go, but there’s nothing I can do — she already took the job and I —”

“But it’s not your fault,” Phil utters through tears tracing tracks down his face. “It’s not your fault, okay?”

And they hold each other until it’s too long to excuse as just a hug, and then, sniffling, they pull away and Phil regretfully says he has to leave.

Dan gives him a last hug at the front door, and Phil savors it, tries to remember it. He knows it’s not his last, but it’s among them. Dan is warm and safe and feels like the best thing that’s happened in forever, and he releases Phil with a bittersweet smile. “Are you going to be okay?” he asks, a note of pleading beneath his voice.

“I haven’t done this in weeks,” Phil reassures him, and kind of holds out his arms to underline what _this_ means. “Thanks to you.”

Dan just shakes his head sadly and waves Phil out the door.

As he leaves, Phil wonders if the words “it’s not your fault” were for Dan or for himself.

* * *

 

Dan has been gone for two weeks.

Phil might’ve offered to help Dan pack if he hadn’t felt like bashing his head in every time he’d thought about the fact that Dan was leaving. When Dan had said “almost immediately after the year ends”, he’d meant it — they left only two days after.

Phil’s stomach clenches painfully when he thinks about it. His last day with Dan. His last hug, and how stupid it was that he tried to memorize Dan’s smell. He’d breathed it in, but all Dan smelled like was his clean t-shirt and Phil knew that it was dumb to try and commit a smell to memory anyway. All of that _breathing in his scent for the last time_ crap in books are just lies. No one cares how you smell. No one smells that good, anyway.

“I’ll visit,” Dan had promised, and Phil could barely look him in the eyes. He’d blinked rapidly.

“Yeah,” he’d said hoarsely.

Dan had opened his mouth, like he was going to say something further, but then he’d closed his mouth, swallowed and nodded and said, “Well, ‘bye, Phil.”

Then he’d hugged Phil one last time so quickly that Phil wouldn’t have been able to sniff him if he’d tried.

He’d gotten in the car and the car had driven off and Phil was left standing solo on Dan’s lawn with the tire swing they’d decided against taking down, the sun beating mercilessly on his shoulders and his black hair capturing the heat, tears prickling his eyes. He was alone now, truly alone, and there was no going back from that.

Now it’s two weeks later and even the mention of Dan’s name makes him clench his fists. He wants to be happy that the year is over and he passed his exams but all he can think is that summer is here and he has no one to spend it with.

And life sucks.

It’s almost worse than it was with Benny. Because with Benny he knew there was no replacing what he’d lost — but Dan is only hours away, so close yet so far, and Phil _hates_ it, hates everything, hates himself the most.

So it’s nine in the morning and Phil is sitting up in bed, leaning back against his pillows.

His arm has almost healed fully — the only thing that remains is thin white lines scarring the skin. But as he looks at his now healthy arm, it stings in his gut. He doesn’t _deserve_ to have an unscathed arm. Dan _left_ him.

Anger and frustration fill his chest. Yeah, Dan left him. He knows, deep inside himself, that it’s nothing at all like that, but he can’t stop himself. He wants to take it out on someone or on something and he’s fresh out of friends.

He pushes the covers off his bed and opens the bottom drawer of his dresser. Digging around, he pulls out a Swiss army knife — for “emergencies or camping”, his dad had said — and he slides out the silver blade and stares at it. There’s a sort of hopeless weight in his chest and he hates it and he puts the blade to his forearm and there’s a tingling feeling in his fingers because it’s been so long since he’s felt pain, real, physical pain.

And then his mum knocks on his door.

Phil drops the army knife into his drawer, still open, swiftly kicks the drawer shut (harder than it needs to be) and slowly steps toward the door.

“Phil!” his mum says through the door. “Hey, sweetie, are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Phil answers, opening the door reluctantly. His mum’s bright face looks back at him so cheerfully he feels like punching her in the face. It’s not fair — why does she get to be happy?

And she holds out a letter. “You have a letter,” she says eagerly. “It’s from —”

“Dan,” Phil breathes, and he grabs the letter and traces the lettering on the envelope with his thumb disbelievingly.

Phil’s mum nods. “I didn’t know you guys were going to write to each other! Oh, that’s wonderful, letters are such a nice thing to get. All I get are bills. Anyway, I’ll leave you to it.” She pulls him forward and kisses his forehead before he can resist, and suddenly he feels terrible for hiding out in his bedroom and avoiding his family for the past two weeks, alternating between crying grossly into his pillow (he has a designated crying pillow now, and he only uses it to cry because there’s probably snot and spit on there and he’s not gonna sleep on that, no way) and furiously kicking the wall.

“I love you, mum,” Phil says suddenly. “I — thanks.”

He doesn’t know what he’s thanking her for — bringing in the mail? Raising him right? Knocking at just the right moment? But his mum, as always, just smiles warmly at him and says, “I love you too, Philip.”

She leaves, closing the door cautiously behind her, and Phil stares at the letter in his hand. His name is written in big, showy cursive on the front, in blue ink. His address is printed below.

He has no idea what the letter will hold, and he almost doesn’t want to open it — worried that the concept of the letter is better than the letter itself, and opening it will ruin the image, the hope it contains. Maybe it’s just a quick “Hey, life’s good, me and PJ have hit it off again and I don’t miss you at all”. Phil squeezes his fingernails tightly into his palm, braces himself for the worst so he can’t possibly be disappointed, and opens the envelope as carefully as he can.

The letter is only one page long. But something falls out and flutters to the carpet as he pulls it out, and Phil bends over and picks up a piece of paper.

There’s a drawing on it, and Phil feels starstruck the moment he sees it. It’s like staring at a mirror, a mirror that only reflects the color blue, and his eyes are sketched out in blue pen, more beautiful than anything he’s ever seen. He instinctively looks up at the wall above his bed, where the first drawing Dan ever gave him — in fact, the memory of the first time they met — rests, pinned to the wall with a pushpin that technically shouldn’t be in there, but pierced the drywall and works just fine.

Phil feels tears stinging his eyes and he puts down the artwork carefully on his bedspread before unfolding the paper in his hand.

_Dear Phil,_

_Today is 22 of June, so if you receive this any later than that I just want you to know that I_ _sent_ _it on the 22nd. In any case, I wrote you a letter for two reasons — well three actually. The first is that I never actually did get your phone number. It’s strange but all those times we hung out together I never actually got your number. You have mine, but I never got yours. I’m not sure why that is — it’s alright, though. The second reason is that letters are fun. They’re nice to receive and they’re kind of fun to write, too. The third reason is that, if I’m honest, I’m a bit worried about you._

_You’ll probably not be happy about this but what you told me before I left was something I didn’t really know how to deal with. But I do remember you told me it happened after your friend Benny died and you were alone and it occurred to me that my leaving might possibly hurt you. So I thought I’d write a letter and see how you were._

_Please don’t injure yourself again, especially not on my behalf but generally at all. It’s not worth it, Phil. Even if/though I’m not exactly right there, I’m still here (picture me pointing at your heart). Seriously, if you’re gonna be clean for anyone, do it for me. I insist that the only thing on your arms when I next see you is reminders and scribbles in blue pen._

_Speaking of scribbles and other artsy things, I made you a sketch. It’s you! It’s your eyes. I may have used a reference for it or I may have done it from memory and you’ll never know — but I hope you like it. It’s reminiscent of when we first met. Do you still have that doodle I was making? I know it was two hands holding each other. I remember you said it could be one lonely person. It makes sense. I don’t like to think that way, though, because the thought that someone is lonely makes me sad. And if you were thinking it was one lonely person because you yourself were one lonely person, well, don’t be lonely anymore. You’ve got me._

_Anyway, I’m not that great at writing letters — but I’ll give you a bit of an update. We’ve partially moved in. The house is quite nice and big because mum’s work is paying for the majority of other expenses so we kind of splurged, plus we won’t be living here that long anyway. Relatively, I mean. I’m enrolled for six months to a school the name of which I forget. I’ve met up with PJ and I finally met his new pal Chris. Chris is pretty cool. He’s quirky but not in a bad way. I think you would like him. I told them about you and they think you sound awesome. They’d like to meet you too. I would be so happy if that could happen, you don’t even know. It’s always very strange to have two different parts of your life collide, you know?_

_Things could be worse, and of course they could be better. I’ve missed quite a bit in PJ’s life and I feel a bit out of the loop. I miss you. Don’t watch High School Musical without me._

_If you want to write back, you can — my address is on the envelope. If you don’t want to, don’t feel like you need to. It’s kind of therapeutic to write to you, if I’m honest. No pressure whatsoever. Hugs._

_Best,_

_Dan Howell_

 

Phil feels unbelievably stupid that tears are rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto the paper when he finishes reading. Dan misses him? And Dan thought of him? Actively? When he was with his old friends?

He rereads a section, teeth gnawing on his chapped lower lip.

_Seriously, if you’re gonna be clean for anyone, do it for me. I insist that the only thing on your arms when I next see you is reminders and scribbles in blue pen._

He stares at the drawer with his army knife. With a sigh, he stands up, opens the drawer, and slides the blade back into the knife. It’s satisfying, closing off that part of his life. He’ll stay clean for Dan: he’ll count off every day he doesn’t scratch his arm with something sharp or potentially dangerous. Six months. He can do it.

And besides. He’s got a pen pal now.

* * *

The next letter Phil receives a week later, and aside from the written part, a 5-pound note spirals to the carpet when he opens the envelope.

 _I just remembered I forgot to repay you for that lunch money I borrowed forever ago,_ the letter explains, and Phil actually laughs that Dan would stand by something as insignificant and replaceable as lunch money. Still, he puts it in the drawer of his bedside table, where the drawing of his eyes from the previous week lays like an amulet, a reminder that Dan hasn’t forgotten about him.

The week after that, Phil notices that Dan always puts something extra in his letters, and this week it’s pressed flowers. They almost confuse him when he delicately draws them out of the envelope, but he reads the letter as he drops them into the side table drawer. _I was thinking about that time we went to the park and we sat under that tree and talked about the sun and life and some other things and I was taking a walk and saw these flowers and then I remembered — those same flowers were at that park. I remember because I specifically laid down so I wouldn’t lie on them, because they were pretty and I didn’t want to crush them. I’ve crushed two of them for you, Phil. That’s dedication. It was a necessary sacrifice, I think._

Phil doesn’t write back: a part of him is scared he’ll write the wrong thing, and another part thinks Dan just really enjoys writing these rhetorical letters.

The next week, nothing comes in the mail, and Phil’s spirit is considerably dampened. He considers calling Dan before he realizes that their home phone number is probably different now, and he doesn’t have any way to reach Dan except by mail.

Which Phil has decided against. He’s terrible with words — speaking them, and writing them in particular. There is no way he’s going to jeopardize this ostensibly breakable relationship by screwing up a letter.

Their friendship is not fragile. Somehow Phil knows this, because if it was fragile, then Dan would have written to him that week. But he didn’t.

In a way, it makes Phil feel like Dan trusts him enough to leave him alone for a week with no word from his best friend. Maybe he’s making up excuses in his head for why Dan didn’t write, but it works, and Phil powers through the days until the following week.

Letters come more infrequently but more lengthy, like Dan is trying to pack detail into them. _PJ asked if he could write to you, and I said you probably wouldn’t mind, so if you get a letter from him in the next few days, I promise he’s not a creepy stalker. He’s just curious about you. I talk about you a lot. Is that weird? Oh well. Not apologizing. YOU DESERVE ATTENTION AND AFFECTION,_ Dan writes in one letter, and Phil chuckles as he hears the cheery tone that would accompany it, and probably a hair ruffle or something similar.

Phil knows he’s wasting away his summer, but it doesn’t feel like a waste when he’s sitting in the air-conditioned comfort of his bedroom, reading Dan’s letters over and over and analyzing the flowers, the sketch, the five-pound, and the newly added comic strip of Troy and Gabriella, anime-style.

_Gabi-chan, will you go out with me?_

_Turoyi-kun, I want to! But Sharpay-chan is a heartless demon._

_Gabi-chan, she is just misunderstood._

_Fine, if you think she’s so kawaii, date her instead!_

It makes Phil laugh like a fool, and he even shows it to his mum, who laughs with him. Then, eyes shining, she turns to him and says, “Dan’s a good guy, Phil. I’m glad you found him.”

Phil nods, because he’s not sure how to answer that. _Dan’s, like, a hundred and a half kilometers away. But yeah, I’m glad I found him._

Maybe it’s pathetic that the only friend he has lives so far away, and maybe it’s sad that he doesn’t even talk to Dan, just receives letters, but Phil is happy, and from Dan’s letters he seems to be doing just fine. And if the setup works well, who’s to mess with it?

* * *

 

Phil’s life falls back into a sort of routine when school starts again. He’s only finished half of his summer homework, but he doesn’t _really_ care, because that stuff doesn’t _really_ matter. Dan writes him twice a month, and Phil saves everything that accompanies the letters in his Dan Drawer, which is inarguably the dumbest name he could’ve thought of for the drawer in his side table, but he’s sticking with it.

As the months drain by and blend into each other, the letters start to stack up. He counts them as the fifth month draws to a close (the fifth month Dan’s been in Norwich, in any case). Twelve letters in all, scribbled in blue ink and filled with the most random tidbits of information.

_By the way, my friend Louise — I think I told you about her once, she’s very sweet and warm — wants to send you cookies or something. I told her they’d spoil and I said I’d pass on the gesture, so now you know._

_You know what I read online the other day? Otters hold hands when they’re sleeping so they don’t float away from each other. I thought you’d find that interesting._

_It’s so hot here, I think my ears are literally about to melt off. Our A/C malfunctioned and now I’m laying around in nothing but, like, boxers, and I can’t decide if it feels more like the flame of an oven inside the house or outside. I’m writing from inside, so sorry if the ink smudges, that would be my sweaty hand. You probably didn’t need to know that._

_I had a pop quiz in World History yesterday and I got the question “in what year did America win the Revolution?”, and I don’t know_ _what_ _came over me but I circled “1789”. Which it is_ _not_ _. It’s 1781, and I was taught that in, like, my sixth year, but my brain just entirely malfunctioned._

_Chris has written this next part:_

_[Hi Philip. Dan has spoken loads about you, you seem like a cool fella. Seriously, he doesn’t shut up about you. I think he has a shrine to you in his closet. Anyway I’m dying to meet you and so is PJ, though I’m too lazy to write a letter like he is. PJ is just strange like that. Anyway, cheers.]_

_Just for the RECORD, I do NOT have a shrine to you in my closet. Thanks Chris._

Phil loves all of it. It makes him laugh and clutch the paper close to his chest like some eighth-year idiot in love, reading notes from their crush. He likes the way Chris writes, and likes the way he says that Dan _doesn’t shut up_ about him. If Phil had anyone else to talk to, he’d probably never shut up about Dan, either.

In the first letter of November, the sixth month (Phil’s been keeping a calendar so he can proudly show Dan that he didn’t cut himself for the whole six months), as Phil shakes out the envelope and removes the letter, a small polaroid picture glides gracefully onto Phil’s comforter.

From Dan’s birthday. Phil knows even before he picks it up, but he does anyway and drinks in the sight of Dan looking at Phil like he’s the world, and Phil laughing carelessly, grinning widely, on Dan’s carpeted floor. It stings him like an old ache, right in the gut, and he’s reminded fiercely of why he misses Dan so much.

He reads the letter as he slips the polaroid picture gently into the Dan Drawer.

_Hey, Phil!_

_Enclosed is a photo I think you’ll recognize. It’s from my birthday. I used my birthday card to get you to take it, and I’m glad I did. You look happy in it, which is a plus. I thought you might be feeling sad, so I hoped it would remind you that you look very nice when you smile. You smile, I smile, as Avril Lavigne says. I think that’s Avril Lavigne._

_We’re coming back to London in three weeks, Phil! I’m excited. I love Norwich, but mostly for the company. If I could bring PJ, Chris, Louise, Charlie — have I even told you about Charlie? He’s awesome, he loves to read and he loves science and he’s kind of quiet but very interesting. You would like him. Anyway, if they could come back to London with me, then I’d be happy. I’m glad we’re coming back, though. You won’t be too alone much longer._

_This will be the second-to-last letter I send you — I’ll send one a week before I leave, so it’ll arrive only a couple days before I get back. I really miss you and I can’t wait to see you._

_Switching out of this school and back into the old one is going to be complicated but hopefully only a limited amount. I think more complications might cause my brain to implode. Nevertheless I’m keeping up with my work more than ever now so I don’t get overwhelmingly stressed._

_You haven’t responded to any of my letters so I can only assume you decided not to, and hopefully you’re actually receiving them and opening them. If so, thank you. I enjoy writing to you. If not, it doesn’t really matter because you won’t read this anyway, so I can say whatever I want. Chicken butt. Macaroni and cheese. I love pancakes. Sorry. Got carried away._

_Are you well? It’s rhetorical because I know you won’t reply, but I hope my first letter had any impact whatsoever and you decided not to cut yourself. Honestly, it was hard to hear that you did that, but it’s been six months, almost, so if you’ve made it this far, then I’m immensely proud of you. And if not, it’s okay. I believe in you. I’ll be home soon._

_In my final letter I wanted all my friends from Norwich to write something in so you could just get a couple sentences from them all, because they all seem excited to know more about you and meet you, so that’s going to happen. Aside from that, I hope school isn’t too much work or stress. I hope you’ve eaten ice cream in the past week. If you haven’t, for the_ _love_ _of god please do. I hope you’re keeping all the little memorabilia I’ve put in these letters._

_See you!_

_Dan_

Phil smiles sideways as he reads the letter to himself, reacting internally. Charlie does sound like the kind of person he would like, if he liked other people at all.

Dan misses him and can’t wait to see him. Phil clenches his stomach and ignores the backflip it does at that.

He realizes that Dan might have totally legitimately thought that Phil was just ignoring his letters, but by now it’s too late to reply. He bites his lip worriedly and hopes Dan will stay his optimistic self and assume correctly that Phil’s been reading every letter.

Phil glances at his calendar, hung up on his wall over his dresser. There are blue _X_ ’s on every day of this month, and he knows they cover the last five months, too. For the first time, a swell of pride washes over him. He did it, didn’t he? He stayed clean for six months. He stayed clean for Dan.

He laughs at Dan’s spontaneity. _I love pancakes._ “Me too, Dan,” Phil says under his breath, giggling. He scans the next paragraph, excited to hear from Dan’s friends. There’s a lingering insecurity that they’re probably better than him in every way, but it’s been six months and despite not seeing his face a single time, Dan has just about done the opposite of forgotten him, and slowly Phil feels like instead of being replaced by this intimidating group of cool and quirky friends, he could just… become a part of them. He’s all but forgotten the feeling of having more than one friend, and barely remembers the feeling of a friend at all, other than reassuring words on paper, but he likes Dan’s friends because Dan likes them, and he likes Dan enough to trust his taste in people.

He has eaten ice cream in the past week, but he thinks, _screw it,_ and after delicately storing the letter in the Dan Drawer, he heads downstairs to help himself to some more from the freezer. There’s cookie dough in there somewhere, and Phil’s in a good mood.

* * *

 

The final letter only contains a few words from Dan, but first comes a wave of short messages from everyone else.

_PJ: Hello Phil! I’ve not got much to say, as I did write you a short letter of my own — I know that’s peculiar but I’ve been told I’m peculiar, so not much to say to that. Hope all is well. Best to you!_

_Chris: Hello, it’s Chris! I know I said this before but Dan will not stop talking about you. Especially now he’s going to see you again. You’re very lucky to have met him. Anyway, cheers._

_Louise: Someday, I swear to you, I will make you cupcakes. You deserve them, you’re a beautiful young man, Dan has showed us a photo of you and you are simply dashing. Be happy! Smile! Best wishes!_

_Charlie: Hiya, Phil. Whilst I am saddened by the fact that Dan is leaving — he is an incredible friend and a great person to be around — I’m heartened by the thought that the two of you will be reunited. Just don’t let him forget us, alright? Cheers._

_Cat: Hey, Phil! Unlike literally everyone else in this letter and also this country, I’m actually American, which isn’t exactly relevant but is something I figured mattered enough to say. Anyway, good luck in school, hope things are going great, and tell Dan we love him! (Even though we’ve said it to him repeatedly) (and he’s going to read this letter)._

_Jack: Not gonna lie, I don’t talk to Dan that often and by extension I don’t really know you, but seriously, out of maybe ten conversations we’ve had, he’s mentioned you in nine if not ten of them. You’re a lucky fellow. Also, my buddy Dean says 1) howdy and 2) dog. Don’t ask._

_Dan:_

_Hey, Phil. My friends wanted to write little somethings to you, just because. I notice a lot of them have mentioned that I talk about you a lot, which I’ll own up to shamelessly. You’re pretty great, in my defense — how could I_ _not_ _talk about you?_

_In any case, by the time you receive this letter my return will be nigh. That’s a fancy word, I like that. Normally it’s used in suspense (the end is nigh) but in this case it’s a good thing, at least in my opinion._

_In all seriousness, I’m very happy to be returning to you and to the city I know and love. I’ve got so many stories to tell you — it was hard to remember them all, so every time something of interest happened I’d just write it on my hand and then when I got home I’d write it on paper. I have a list, a literal list, but that’s not what I wanted to get at here. You’ll see the list in due course._

_In this envelope, I hope you’ve already noticed —_ (Phil had noticed) — _there’s a pen. Bear with me while I explain this one._

_I think we both know I have something of an addiction to doodling, in particular with blue pen, and in particular with that brand of blue pen. It’s just a really good pen. But when I met you I was sketching with a specific pen, and beyond then it just became “the pen for important moments”. I drew your eyes with that pen. I wrote the list of things I wanted to tell you about with that pen. Everything I wrote down whenever we hung out was with that pen. I carried it in my pocket just in case._

_It’s out of ink now, which means I can’t use it anymore. But that’s okay, because now I want to give it to you._

_It’s my important moments pen, and meeting you was one of the most important moments in my recent life. Hopefully the meaning translates._

_I’ll see you in a couple days._

_Big hugs._

_Dan_

Phil pulls out the pen, rolls it in his fingers, and uncaps it slowly. He puts it on the envelope and tries to write — as promised, it seems fresh out of ink.

Still, he feels like sobbing or something. The pen is useless, sure, but it holds more meaning than almost anything Phil owns — it’s a pen that marks his friendship with Dan, specifically their friendship and no one else’s. Phil feels special and he feels loved, and he hasn’t felt either of those things in such a long time that for a moment he mistakes them for sadness.

In a startling rush it occurs to him how deeply eager he is for Dan’s return. Beyond just missing his company, Phil misses hearing his voice, seeing him get excited, talking about the things he loves, watching him doodle, and his warm, kind eyes and the smile that just never quits. It all compresses into a feeling like a flame inside his chest, pulsating powerfully, and he sits down on his bed, slides the final letter into the Dan Drawer, and wraps his fingers tight around the pen, trying to soak in the meaning through his palms.

He can’t wait to see Dan.

* * *

 

Dan is sitting on the tire swing outside his house when Phil walks up. It’s slow and he almost looks like he’s lost, but he’s definitely not — he feels less lost than he has in six months because there, in front of him, is Dan Howell, and Phil’s heart swells. Dan hasn’t spotted him yet, but Phil is standing quite far away (and may also be hiding behind a tree).

It feels monumental. So he lets himself examine Dan for a short moment and soak in this moment of peace before his heart explodes.

Dan’s fringe has been well-kept. He looks just about the same as before, if not a bit taller. Clad in the signature black skinny jeans and a bright blue sweater, Phil feels a rush of familiarity. And he looks lost in thought, staring off into the middle distance, his eyes squinting at the quickly decreasing sunlight of November. His tongue pokes out between his lips, and Phil bites back a grin. It’s so classically _Dan_ that suddenly he can’t wait.

He emerges from behind the tree and approaches Dan, and Dan looks up and meets his eyes.

Phil feels like there’s going to be a moment of awkward silence. There isn’t.

“Phil!” Dan cries, and he leaps off the tire swing and wraps his arms tight around Phil, so earnestly that Phil hugs him back with equal enthusiasm because Dan’s excitement is contagious and Phil loves it.

Dan pulls away, but his hands linger on Phil’s arms as he looks him up and down. “You look taller,” he says breathlessly.

“You look taller yourself,” Phil replies, and his face breaks into a massive grin. He glances at Dan’s hands — still grasping his arms — and notices that Dan painted his nails. A light green color that reminisces of springtime.

“I missed you,” Dan says categorically, just a statement of a fact, but it makes Phil’s insides squirm and tendrils of warmth squeeze his heart.

“I missed —” Phil is about to reciprocate, and then Dan gasps loudly and steps back.

“You’re wearing short sleeves!”

Phil looks down at himself. He knows he’s wearing short sleeves — he did it specifically so Dan would see that he _did_ it, that he didn’t cut himself because Dan asked him not to. It’s cold out and the wind is biting, but now he smiles bashfully.

“Yeah, I…I wanted you to see that I…” That he what? Read the letters? Cares about Dan? Doesn’t actually feel compelled to hurt himself anymore?

He trails off, but Dan gets the message, because Dan always understands. He smiles widely. “I’m so proud of you, Phil.”

“Well.” Phil ducks his head. “Thank you.”

“So you read my letters?”

Phil nods vigorously. “I loved them. So much. They — they cheered me up a lot. School has _sucked_ without you.”

“Not gonna lie to you, school has kind of sucked without you, too,” Dan says, a grin threatening to swallow his face. “It was weird not having someone to talk to every morning. And none of my friends lived within walking distance, so they couldn’t come over unless someone drove them, which was a huge obstacle to my already-lacking social life.”

“Oh, that reminds me.” Phil digs a slip of paper out of his pocket and decisively holds it out to Dan. “My phone number. I forgot to give it to you.”

Dan takes the paper like it’s a trophy, holds it gently between his fingers, then slides it in his pocket. “Thank you. I’ll put it in my phone. Hey, you can come in. My parents will be happy to see you.”

Phil can’t seem to stop smiling. “Sure.”

Dan pushes the front door of his house open and shouts, “PHIL’S HERE!”

The warmth of the house instantly justifies Phil’s decision to wear short sleeves. The look on Dan’s face was worth it, definitely.

Dan’s mum rushes out of one of the bedrooms. A handkerchief is tied around her forehead and her sleeves are rolled up — she wields a screwdriver in her right hand.

“Phil!” she says delightedly, and she hurries forward and engulfs him in a hug. _The Howells,_ Phil thinks, _have a thing for hugs._ It isn’t a complaint — they’re welcoming and soft (the hugs and the Howells) and they make Phil feel adored.

“How are you? Oh, you’ve grown!” she says, behaving very much like Phil’s grandma. Phil smiles at her. Dan’s mum’s mere presence always elicits a smile.

“I’m well, Ms. Howell. I’m really glad you’re back. How are you?”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jenna?” she says teasingly. “I’m doing well. Sorry for my appearance, I’m assembling a set of drawers in the guest room. Don’t let me keep you. It’s wonderful to see you.”

She ruffles his hair and Phil ducks his head again and then she vanishes into the guest room.

“Dad is out buying more screws,” Dan explains as they enter his old room. Phil feels like he’s stepped into another world, a complete opposite of anything that could represent Dan. The room is barren, just the frame of a bed and a mattress with a pillow and sheets on the floor. And boxes. Lots of boxes.

“What about your brother?” Phil frowns as he steps over a long cardboard package. “How is he already out and about?” Though they’ve never met, Phil’s opinion of Adrian sours every time he _isn’t_ there.

Dan freezes in place and Phil, seeing this, stops moving as well. “Dan?”

Dan turns around to look at Phil. His face has fallen and his eyes are sad. Instantly a weight drops in Phil’s stomach. _He’s realized he doesn’t actually like me anymore. He wants me to leave._

“I have something important to tell you,” Dan says instead, and he sounds guilt-ridden and deeply upset. Phil picks his way through the boxes until he and Dan are face to face.

“Yes?”

He braces himself for a harsh blow, but instead the words that come tumbling out are a shock: “Adrian is dead.”

Phil blinks. Then he blinks again, and he knows he’s reacting incorrectly but he can’t seem to register the words. The beloved little brother who’s never around — dead?

“What?” he says. “Since when?” He regrets it as soon as he says it, and cringes. What an awful thing to ask.

Dan regards Phil with melancholy eyes and says, “Since my ninth year. His sixth.”

Phil processes this. “Wait — Adrian is — he’s been dead all along?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Dan says quickly, and he’s on the verge of tears. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it, and then you asked and I just said he wasn’t because I _want_ him to be alive, but I was stupid and I couldn’t get over it and I’m sorry.”

Phil isn’t used to reassuring people. He’s not sure what to do. “It’s okay,” he says. Good start. “Dan, it’s okay. I’m not mad that you didn’t tell me. That was your own private thing.”

“I shouldn’t have lied,” Dan says miserably, and then he looks up at Phil and his eyes are shining with tears. “But I had a hunch you wouldn’t be angry. And when you told me about — you know —” he gestures towards Phil’s arms and Phil instinctively reaches for a sleeve to pull down, only to find that there are no sleeves and there’s nothing to hide, “ — I thought I should come clean too. But then I couldn’t do it in a letter.”

Phil hugs Dan, because it seems like the right thing to do. It’s what Dan would do, anyway, and Dan is the best role model when it comes to being a good person.

Dan buries his head in Phil’s shoulder and Phil doesn’t mind a bit that his shirt is going to be tearstained. He tightens his hold on Dan and they stand in the middle of the room, holding each other, and Phil’s heart clenches a little.

Dan sniffles as he pulls away, and with a watery half-smile, he says, “I wanted to thank you.”

“What?” It baffles Phil. “Me? Why?”

“Well, I don’t know if it’s fair to compare my situation to yours, but I was supremely miserable when Adrian died and then I just threw myself into doodling stuff, and I was still trying to adjust when I met you, and you just brightened my day — and my life, so thank you.” Dan says candidly, smiling softly at Phil’s puzzled expression.

Slowly it melts away, and understanding dawns. “You helped me too,” Phil admits. “With Benny. It sucked. You made it suck less.”

Dan sniffles again, then says, “I’m glad we found each other. And I’m so glad I’m home.”

Phil glances around the wasteland of a room. It doesn’t feel quite like Dan yet — the walls are an ugly shade of cream, the bed is just wood, and the carpeted floor hasn’t been vacuumed in months — but he still feels significantly more at home, and he knows it’s thanks to Dan himself.

Dan, who spoke to him when no one else would.

Dan, who gave him an actual drawing upon their meeting.

Dan, who brightened Phil’s life every morning at school.

Dan, who gave Phil a reason not to wreck himself.

Dan, who was suffering just as much as Phil was.

Phil feels selfish, and then he feels wonderful. He looks at Dan again and his stomach ties itself into knots, and with a matter-of-fact feeling in his gut, he realizes he _likes_ Dan.

It’s not a big revelation. It feels like it’s a door that’s been slowly creaking open for the past year, and only now has the light inside turned on. Phil can see beyond the door. He’s not that shocked.

He’s definitely unsure of what to do. But not surprised.

“I’m glad you’re home too,” he says. The word _home_ fits.

When he gets back to _his_ home, his mum asks how it was to see Dan.

Phil smiles ambiguously and says, “Great.”

He climbs the stairs to his room, flops down on his back on his comforter, and stares at the ceiling until his mum calls him for dinner. He can’t wipe the grin off his face.

* * *

 

Phil should’ve known that Dan wasn’t the type to text, but when his cell phone starts playing Muse’s _Madness_ (an all-time favorite song and his ringtone for the last five years) he’s a bit startled for a moment. The contact name on the screen says _Dan <3 _ (shameless and maybe risky, but who cares? Dan will never see) and Phil shakes his head a little to himself before picking up.

“We just saw each other an hour ago,” he says by means of a greeting. “Not that I mind your calling, but whatever it was, why didn't you say it at school?”

“Will you go out with me?”

Phil’s jaw falls slack. The slight hum of the telephone line is magnified. His heart is thumping in his chest. His hands are gripping his phone too tight.

“Just to clarify,” he says slowly, his voice probably shaking too much, “did you just ask if I’d go out with you?”

“Yes.” Dan is shameless as well, it seems, and he sounds confident but not arrogant. “I would have asked you at school, but then I didn’t, but then I felt very confident so I decided to do it now.”

“Yes,” Phil says. He bites his lip. It comes out as a question, so he repeats it. “Yes. I’ll go out with you. Uh — was this — I mean — do you —”

For all of Dan’s good traits, Phil wishes just this once he would jump in and finish Phil’s sentence for him, but he’s patient like always, and Phil finally sputters out, “Do you like me?”

“What? Yes, of course I like you, otherwise why would I ask you out? You’re extraordinary,” Dan says. There’s a lilt in his voice that Phil knows means he’s smiling, and he wonders if Dan can hear the huge smile playing on his face right now.

“I like you too,” he says.

“Wonderfully articulate, too,” Dan says, teasing words. Then he says, “I’ll meet you at the park around seven.”

“Wait — tonight? You want to go out tonight? To the park?” Everything is upside down. His heart is in his stomach and his brain isn’t thinking.

“Yeah, unless that’s inconvenient, in which case —”

“No, it’s fine, just let me tell my mum.” _What will I tell my mum?_ he shouts to himself inside his head.

“What will you tell her?” God, it’s like he’s _psychic._

Phil ponders this. “That I’m meeting you at the park?”

“Sounds plausible enough.” Dan chuckles. “Can’t wait. Wow, I love having your phone number. I can just pick up and ring you any time! Alright, see you then.”

And the line clicks before Phil can say another word.

He collapses back onto his pillows and tries to process his thoughts, but they’re a jumble in his head and he can’t sort them out, and also, his heart is racing a mile a minute.

He takes a deep breath. Of course, the only person he wants to talk to about getting asked out by Dan is… Dan.

Phil’s eyes dart around his room and he sits up, slides off the bed, and pulls out a piece of lined paper from a drawer. He grabs a pen from his dresser and starts to make a list.

  1. I like Dan.
  2. A lot. It’s pretty stupid how much I like him and didn’t realize it before a week ago.
  3. He likes me, too.
  4. Also pretty stupid.
  5. He asked me out.
  6. On a date. Like a real date.
  7. Because he likes me.
  8. I said yes.
  9. Because I like him.
  10. I’m meeting him at the park in two hours.



He doesn’t need to write down the next thing, but it flashes in his mind like a neon sign. “I need to get ready.”

In a frenzy, he takes a five minute shower, rifles through his closet, tugs on his favorite pair of black jeans — one of the only style choices he and Dan share — and picks out a checkered dark blue button down. Not black, but not too bright. He’s already going out of his comfort zone.

He’s going on a _date_.

Halfway through buttoning up his shirt Phil starts to see stars. He bursts out of his room as he buttons the last two, and his mum is stirring spaghetti in a pot, and suddenly everything is beautiful and wild and crazy enough that he says in a controlled voice, “Mum. Dan asked me out on a date tonight at seven at the park, can I go?”

His mum stops stirring, turns around, and looks at him with elation and pride. Her smile is unmatched. “Oh, Phil, that’s so sweet!”

Only now does Phil realize the enormity of what he’s just said, but it doesn’t really…matter? Unsurprisingly, all Phil can feel is a tingling anticipation for his date.

His _date._ With _Dan._

_Date._

He grins. “I know.”

He knows he’s being absurdly happy but it turns out Dan has that effect on him. And the darkness in his head still swirls around but it’s caged in now by all these other, positive feelings.

His mum shakes her head amusedly. “I’m going to nag you for details later, but you can go as long as you take your phone and eat dinner before. And be home by ten, okay?”

Phil kisses his mum’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“You’re unusually affectionate today,” she says as a response, and winks at him.

“You ruined it,” he counters, blushing. “I’m going to my room.”

“I’ll call you when dinner's ready,” she says to his retreating back.

* * *

 

It’s two months later.

Dan and Phil are lying on Dan’s bed. His room once more resembles his personality, bursting again with color and drawings and light filtering in from the window. The overhead light is also on, because even at two in the afternoon the sun is already preparing to set. The topic of discussion: autumn.

“Anyway,” Dan continues, “shorter days and less sunlight means vampires are abound this season, which is obviously why Halloween is in the fall.”

Maybe not _exactly_ autumn.

“I’m pretty certain there’s a historical explanation for why Halloween is in the fall,” Phil says, but he’s smiling.

Dan turns on his side, facing Phil, and starts subconsciously tracing his finger along Phil’s arm, illustrating with his index finger where his scars, almost fully healed now, remind him of what he used to be. Phil gets goosebumps from it — Dan is so delicate it’s like he’s drawing a picture. Maybe he is, in his mind. “Those historical guys are boring. But” — Dan lights up — “strangely, I actually do know why we celebrate Halloween the way we do. We dress up like scary dead guys because people used to believe that Halloween was when, you know, all the dead guys would be walking the streets, so in order to not be murdered they’d dress like the dead guys.”

“When in Rome.”

“Exactly. And we give out candy because they used to put candy out to appease the dead guys, again, to avoid being murdered. Those historical guys were strategic as hell,” Dan concludes, and Phil laughs.

He reaches over to the nightstand and picks up a blue pen. He doesn’t have to look: it’s always there, and it’s the designated Phil pen, because Dan sleeps on the right side of the bed (he’s very adamant about it) and the Phil pen is on the nightstand on the left.

Uncapping it, he scribbles the words “strategic as hell” and “vampires b/c no sunlight” on his wrist, pauses, then puts the tip of the pen to Dan’s hand — it stills on his arm — and sketches a small heart.

“You’re a nerd,” Dan says fondly as Phil caps the pen and puts it back. Then he sits up. “Wait, speaking of you’re a nerd, I have something I have to give you.”

He gets off the bed and Phil sits in silence and watches as Dan digs through his drawer before pulling out a piece of paper. It’s maybe half the size of a regular A4 page, and from the back Phil can tell it’s been drawn on, but then Dan hands it to Phil and the breath is knocked out of him. He struggles into a sitting position and stares.

“You drew me.” It’s a statement void of any emotion except awe.

“I did.”

“How did you —” Phil is speechless, breathless, frozen in disbelief, his fingers tracing reverently over the perfect drawing. Every angle, every feature, every line is without fault. It’s as if he’s looking into a mirror.

Dan shrugs. “It was mostly a challenge at first — I needed to practice drawing faces, and you do have a very nice one to draw, lots of nice angles and things. After we met, then I just enjoyed it. Got to stare at that face for ages in secret.”

Phil can’t find words to properly express his feelings. He gazes at the drawing some more, then up at Dan’s face (Dan is watching him adoringly, and Phil’s heart still does a flip-flop when he sees that expression).

“Thank you,” he says, with as much wholehearted fondness as he can muster. The next thing just follows naturally: “I love you.”

Dan doesn’t even hesitate. He watches Phil’s mouth clamp shut and his eyes widen and his face splits into a wide smile. “I love you too.”

He leans in and kisses Phil, and Phil can’t believe he got this lucky.

As Dan clambers back onto the bed, Phil says thoughtfully, “Thank god you scribble stuff on your arm. I never would’ve met you if you didn’t. I haven’t smiled this much in forever.”

“Thank god you exist,” Dan counters, and his hand finds Phil’s again. “I never would’ve survived if you didn’t.”

His tone is light but Phil’s mum always taught him that there’s “truth in jest” and Phil looks over at Dan and smiles. He can’t seem to ever stop smiling.

It’s perfect. Dan is cheesy and adoring and cute and clever and artistic and talented and wonderful. Phil is happy.

That, in itself, is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was quite an adventure. Thanks so _so_ much for reading this, for sticking it out, and please kindly keep in mind: three people labored over the many aspects of this fic for many months, so if you liked it, _please please please_ leave a comment or a message. I love to get feedback on my stuff! My tumblr is @vivilevone or @justcuzfandoms (I can't figure out how to link it so just look it up I guess) so you are welcome to message me there.
> 
> And seriously, thank you so, so much for reading. It means a lot.


End file.
